One month from today you will be a year old.
A. Year. Old.
Right this minute - exactly eleven months into your first year - you have two teeth (bottom), you are learning the joy of clapping and you still cry when a roomful of people (or even just one) sing 'Happy Birthday.' You make the sounds for "mama," and "dada," and "daw" (we think that's doggy). You've begun cruising around the furniture. You are standing up in the middle of the room, unassisted. You are crawling at sonic speed. You are also a thumb and forefinger (only one inch apart) from sleeping through the night.
You are getting so big.
Oh, but you are still such a sweet baby. Even if you poke me in the eyes, or claw at my mouth, or mash food into my nose.
Your sweet, crooked grin is still evidence that you have no ill intent. You are just finding out by poking around.
Some people (your amah) think you are just like me. Your appetite has been more along the lines of non-food stuffs, and you quietly go about your business without much fanfare. Visitors sometimes marvel at your calm demeanor.
I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "If he were my baby I'd forget all about him. It's like he's not here."
You are content to sit back and watch.
You can easily amuse yourself with rolling cars and wooden blocks.
You have found the shangrila that is your sister's room.
You can spend long periods of time putting smallish toys in plastic bottles.
You are even starting to learn that you must turn around before going down the two little steps between the diningroom and our bedrooms.
You are content. And we are content with you.
Until you splash in the dog bowl.
Or grab ceramic mugs off the table.
Or play with the toilet or in the tub or with the recycling.
Or fling food to the floor.
Or get screaming mad over not being allowed to play with sharp objects.
But even on the rare occasions when you DO get yourself into a little trouble; you're fairly low key.
Like last week when you discovered the fun little compartment in the VCR. It's perfect for sticking your fingers into. ... only when you do they don't come out. The more you pull the tighter it gets. The first time it happened you were afraid.
The kind of afraid that seemed to say: I may never get my hand back ever again. And I need these things to eat with. ... HHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPP MMMMEEEEE!!!!!!
But that was about a dozen times ago. You've learned so much since that first frightening experience.
You still put your fingers into the slot, you still get them caught, but now when it happens you just stand there and wimper a little ... until we notice and rescue you.
My guess is by the time this time next month rolls around, you'll learn even more: like how many crackers can fit behind the flap.
Love and noisy kisses,