The world, it is a changing. It seems like last week they prepped me for delivery after a long nine months fraught with terrible morning sickness. Then, suddenly, they gave me a red, puffy screaming infant as if they had plucked her from the air and my life has never been the same. And I became your mother. Your scared, joyful, trepidatious mother.
The first few months were an adjustment. We had as much to learn about taking care of a small baby as you did about life outside of the womb (it seems like an ill-spent nine months to come out knowing nothing, right?). Despite our obstacles, we all grew and learned together. We learned how to change a diaper without getting shot in the face with projectile poop and you learned how to control our every movement with your cries (in that sense, not much has changed). But now you are a year old and you seem less fragile every day. You stand up and intentionally fall right back down, laughing at the concern on my face. I’d probably do the same if I had a nice, cushy diaper to land on. What a great party trick!
And now you talk, well, jabber. You jabber all day long about cats and dogs. All cats are dogs, but dogs are nothing but dogs. You are convinced that someone should call Science and tell them. You still insist that everything says “woof woof”. I’m planning on telling that story when you bring home your first boyfriend (which your dad says is never going to happen, by the way), because what teenager wouldn’t want to be reminded that she would clomp around pointing at household items and barking? Although, I must admit that I am looking forward to the day when our conversations are a little more stimulating than “The cat says meow and the dog says woof.”
We had two birthday parties for you. I don’t think you knew what was going on. All you know is that people arrived and brought presents which you opened up and now you have more toys than can physically fit in your room and walking across the floor is a treacherous land mine of rings, and balls, and baby dolls.
And while we are on the topic of those dolls, it seems like everyone wanted you to have a baby of your own so now you have five (any more and we’ll have a baby Octomom in the making). They all came with their own tiny accessories so you can feed and entertain them. And you really do try to feed those mini plastic humans. You take that bottle and stuff it into every orifice on their face. Up the nose? Why not? In the eye? Don’t mind if I do! But, it’s cool. Don’t learn too quickly (or ever, if your dad has his way).
The other day on Skype, grandma said you were sitting like a toddler. A TODDLER. As in not a baby. For moment, I wanted to keep you little–maniacal cries, projectile poop, barking like a dog and mistreating dolls–forever. Please don’t grow up too fast.