My dear Babycakes,
I'm rarely at my computer anymore to write to you, and yet it's one thing I want to make sure I do. Because I can't bottle up all of the things I feel right now to uncork later when I need to, or maybe someday if you want to. That's what this place is for.
But I can't tear myself away from you. For real. I spend so much time with you because I can see that it is slipping away much more quickly than I would like it to.
I'm a weirdo, I think. I have loved every stage of you. Each time you enter a new phase, I think, "This is the best!" Certainly there hard, frustrating, challenging moments, but you have also challenged me to be a better human being. To dig deep. To "practice patience," as I say to you when you bang your hands angrily on your highchair tray or try to spaghetti-limb your way out of the car seat. To say "This too shall pass," when something feels so hard or never-ending. To embrace change. To realize I can't do it all, and that I can't quite keep up with my social life (and a few other things, like housework) the way I'd like to.
Last night after you went to bed, I was scrolling through my phone photos. Even photos taken of you at Christmastime—I see a baby. You crossed over into toddlerhood somewhere when I wasn't looking. I did not allow this, and yet it happened.
I realize over and over again how being a parent is really an exercise in letting go.
Randomly, and not planned in any way, you stopped sleeping in my arms at night. This has been harder than I thought it would be. I went out for a birthday party and after a goodly fight between you and your daddy, you slept in the crib. He didn't intend to put you in there until you fell asleep, just to get a quick break. He thought you'd want to come back and snuggle after a minute. Instead you passed right out. We've run with it. you've slept in your crib for nearly a week now. You are still waking at night a few times, but we think between Daylight Savings and the transition (and I think I spot a molar in there) it makes sense that it's not perfect yet.
Part of my parenting plan is to let things happen. For you to signal to us in one way or another that you are ready for something. For example, you are nearly 14 months old, and we are still breastfeeding. You have asked for it less during the day, but you still seem to relish our morning and evening feedings, and it helps you fall asleep for afternoon naps. It also comforts you while teething. I'm loath to give up something that seems so easy for me and you, and that provides nourishment and comfort. And frankly, now that you are such a busybody, it's so nice to have some cuddle time (when you aren't trying to do three-legged dog or downward dog while nursing, that is).
So I'm letting it happen. I'm rolling with you moving into your crib. But I'm already missing you in my arms, snuggling in for the night together, waking up at midnight with your hand nestled in mine. I miss feeling your sweet breath on my skin, or watching your eyes flutter open for the first time each day. The last two nights you have fallen asleep pretty quickly in my arms, and I have sat there in the dark for much longer, hugging your warm little footie-pajama-clad body and just feeling so damn grateful to be your mom.
But on the other hand, your words and comprehension are exploding. You went from saying "hi," "mama," and "daddy" around 7 months, adding in a few things along the way. Then you had a quiet period where you regressed back to only those three words. And now, another explosion. You are starting to parrot things we say.
Just last night you pointed to the mobile above your changing table. I said "That's an owl. Can you say owl? And what does the owl say? Hoot hoot!" Tonight, you did the same thing. I said, "That's an owl." You said, "Ow-oh. Hoo hoo!" You also called your cousin by name finally—but called him Dups instead of Gus. So endearing. You are saying "up, up, up" and holding your hands out to be held or carried. I think you tried to say "help" tonight. You say "too-stie" when you see a cup of water or milk. You called Papa—my daddy—Papa the other day. You looove your daddy. You love to watch him out the window if he's working in the yard. You wave and yell "Di-ddy! Di-ddy" over and over. Speaking of people you love, you are CRAY over your auntie Susie, who you are named after. Every Monday when she comes to play with you, you go bananas. You wiggle your hands and wave out the window and last week you even squealed with delight when you saw her coming up the walk. I love it. It makes me so happy that you have a special relationship with my sister, and one of my best friends.
You are in a books phase. Sometimes you will spend upwards of 15 minutes sitting on a pillow in front of your bookshelf, flipping the pages of board books. One night I read a magazine as you did this. Then I had a flash of feeling like I should be more directly engaged with you. I looked up to see if you were bored. You looked up at me and just BEAMED. It was the best. You will sit in our laps and let us read several in a row sometimes, too. You will bring a book over to one of us, drop it in our lap or hand, and then hold your hands out to be lifted onto our laps. You snuggle your body into us and it is the sweetest, most wonderful moment, every single time.
When we say "uh oh," you often look at Ernie, because he is so naughty! That one cracks me up. You love the dogs. They make you laugh. And you are 99 percent of the time very gentle with or toward them. Ernie loves you very much. Murray is terrified of you, but he is making progress—he even sniffed your hand the other day. He is terrified of life, so I don't really see this as a black mark on your record.
You have wild hair and big fat teeth and a giant dimple in your right cheek and round blue eyes. You are silly and charming and funny and maybe a little impy. You are curious and sweet, rocking your baby doll and patting her on the back. You give your stuffed animals kisses. You whisper words when you aren't quite sure how to say them, or if you are feeling shy. You love rides on your bumblebee roller toy and being tossed in the air and tickled. You are petite—tall but small-boned, and you are a skinny little minnie. You love food. You have not turned down a thing yet, from spicy Thai soup to posole at day care to pineapple and grapefruit. You love ham and chicken and broccoli. Anything we have, you want.
I hope you always throw yourself into life this way. I hope you always love so freely, that you stay true to you. I hope you always let people see your sweet nature and that it will remain uncompromised by "cooler" pursuits or attitudes. I hope you always feel so confident to say hi to a stranger or try a new food. I hope you will be an adventurer, but never stray far from your roots. Because I would miss you too much.
Love,
Mama
