Upon further reflection in the last few months of posts in this blog, I’ve learned that the last time I wrote you was seven months ago. If I could go back in time, there are so many things I would have also told you at 18 months. Things I would have also told myself. Mostly, it would include encouragement to see your Grammies more often. To take more pictures of you with her. To myself – to watch you effortlessly blissful in her arms or on her lap. Instead, we are forced with the reality of time and life and death and, or course, the lack of time travel.
Of course, death aside, I would tell myself to pay more attention to your bald head – to kiss it more often, and relish the last few times you napped on one of us in the rocker. In seven months, you have gone from an active baby to a kid. A rough and tumble, sassy, sometimes smelly, oftentimes bossy, little girl.
You’re most frequent phrases these days are “No, Mama, I’ll do it!” alongside “My turn!” and “Help you, Mama?” (which means, will we help you with something – usually buckling something or scraping the last bit of yogurt from your bowl.) You can (mostly) count to 20 (with the exception of 16 and 18… cause who needs those numbers?), and can recognize all of your letters. You are exceptionally smart, and don’t mind me for telling the world all about it.
Although this comes at a price, it seems, of you being (still) painfully shy and introverted. Upon meeting new people (or, honestly, even people you’ve met dozens of times before), you would prefer to crawl into a small shell and disappear. You have no patience for anyone but us… well, and that one lady at school who you love. This makes it hard for our friends, our family, our anyone who we run into at the grocery store. Your favorite coping mechanism? Shoving your ENTIRE HAND in your mouth when you meet new people. So attractive.
You talk a lot (and all the time), and you’re like living with someone’s stream of consciousness. Every car ride is full of pointing out trucks and buses (“White Truck!” “Seven Truck”). Shouting numbers, letters, bird, dog, moon, and my favorite, “man!” Because a man might as well be an elephant or a horse, you see so few of them. “Man, Mama! Man!!” “Yes, RR, that’s a man…”
You also call us Mamas. I suppose you learned how to pluralize items at some point, and why not pluralize us! So, since we’re both “Mama,” you spend a lot of time waving at us and saying “Hiiii Mamas!” or yelling “Mamas!!” to get our attention from your room when your door is closed in the morning or after naptime.
You have a deep love for your Olivia books, and it’s one of the few TV programs you’ll watch long enough for us to make dinner… which is, 20 minutes, at best. Other times, you’re at the heels of one of us yelling “Uppeeees!” (translated – Up Please) so that you can challenge us to learn how to do everything with one arm.
You’re a good eater and sleeper. We simply cannot thank you or be grateful enough of either of those things. In the morning, you often sit in your chair and, upon the very mention of eggs, stick out your arms, fists clenched, yelling with gusto, “EGGS!!!”
Every morning, you wake up in the most phenomenal mood ever. Oh, how I wish I could bottle it and sell it. You jump in your crib, laughing and smiling and being a crazypants. Then you hit the ground running, almost literally. Every morning, you are ready to start the day, and are often bouncing and running around the house.
Your second birthday (which my wife posted about) was low-key and wonderful, complete with a candle on a black and white cookie, and a few presents.
You are a wonderful child. You are smart and beautiful. You make my heart swell with happiness every time I look at you. Your eyes are a mix of blue/green/grey, and your hair has little ringlets of curls that fall on the back of your neck. Unless your favorite lady at school puts them in pigtails, and then we all die a little bit of cuteness.
I love you, baby girl. I can’t wait to watch you continue to grow into this incredible little person.