Friday, 29 July 2011

Eleven months.

In a month I'll be helping you to blow out those birthday candles. I just can't believe I'm writing that. Wasn't it yesterday that we were bringing you home and uncorking the champagne as you slept in our arms? 

You're having fun, aren't you? Your Papa has asked me this question on more than one occasion when he comes home from work and I'm telling him all about our little moments from the day.
We sure are. I'm exhausted at the day's end, but it is a full, rich life. One evening last week I was putting things away in the kitchen and found one of your tiny pink sandals randomly placed in a lower drawer. It dawned on me that this was the first of many little tangible reminders that there is now a little one afoot, mobile, making her presence known, mama's organization be damned, I've got my shoe in hand and think a good place for it would be this drawer. I love that. I can't wait for more like-minded surprises from you.

We have a walker! You took your first steps on July 21st (I will never, as long as I live, forget that moment) and have been getting bolder ever since. Tonight you even walked in the tub! You walk as though it's 3 am and the bar kicked you out, and when stumbling around your diaper butt has never looked so big. And that's just the view from behind; in front, your face is priceless. You are so proud when you walk, and it's usually followed by hand-clapping. It's like you know it's a big, big deal. You still love your wagon but are starting to abandon your vehicle during our walks. Bad soldier. And forget about pulling you in it--you stand while it's moving. Daredevil. 

You now have 8 (8!) teeth and the dreaded molars are well on their way. I feel its swelling and see your hands in your mouth as you cry in pain. It breaks our hearts to see and only be able to provide minimal relief. We hope this part is swift.

I love you every second of every day. We are joined at the hip, you and I. My marvelous girl who waves at her shadow, waves at the neighbors, waves at the flowers as we go for our walks. Your smile is so big and toothy, it reminds me of Laura Ingalls. Your latest favorite is the high five; you intently observed the big kids doing it in music group a couple weeks ago and now have made it yours. Grinning, you raise your chubby arm with your shoulder hiked up, head cocked to one side, all five fingers spread. Your least favorite thing is when I have the nerve to leave the room. Even if your knee-deep in Papa playing you'll scamper away, doing an exaggerated crawl while wailing like a man lost in the desert, dying of thirst. MA-MA-MA-MA-MA-MA.

What else. You are really starting to love books. Finally! I've amassed a miniature library here and was starting to think I would never have an audience to appreciate my Once-ler whispering and shrieking pigeon voice (you know, the kind that wants a puppy). You clap your hands after drinking from the sippy cup, so proud of those independent gulps. Still nuts over those cats of yours. You thrust your jaw out the same way your uncle who was taken away from us too soon used to do. You are not a shrinking violet. A toddler walked over and snatched two toys out of your hand and without skipping a beat you coolly batted them out of her hands. You're already testing your boundaries in mischievous ways. You love to stick a nugget of cat food quickly in your mouth, pluck it out, and smile all while vigorously shaking your head. Stinker. How am I not gonna laugh when this gets to be important territory? You whisper, always whisper, the word Papa. You give your toys kisses and when I ask for one too, you touch your forehead to mine and hold it there. But never long enough, because I want our foreheads to touch forever. And I'm pretty sure that at some point between now and the time I drop you off to junior high school you're no longer going to let me. I'll understand.

I love you.

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