Our Dear, Sweet, Baby Girl,
I cannot believe that this weekend we will be celebrating our second Easter with you. Three Easters ago I still didn't know that you had just burrowed into me, starting the biggest adventure of Mike's and my life. You.
Oh my goodness, you were so TINY last year!
In a chocolate daze from your Easter bunny from your CA. You now have one sweet little curl at the nape of your neck, eight teeth (4 top and 4 bottom), and more teefies on the way.
Spring is my favorite time of year, and you seem to really enjoy being outside. Dirt and dead bugs delight you, as does sunshine and playing out in the rain and splashing in puddles. Your daddy taught you how to run - RUN! - last week, and since then you take off and bolt every now and then. It reminds me of how the cilantro always seems to bolt and take seed way before I'm even remotely ready.
The post-partum depression is a faint, vague memory now. At the time I was desperately worried that it would cloud my happy memories with you, but I'm joyful to report that my happy, cuddly, cozy, sweet, fond memories vastly outweigh those of concern, frustration, and uncertainty.
You actually helped me with the uncertainty most of all: when you were brand-new, your daddy and I were bombarded with conflicting advice from every possible source. We had no idea what to do, and everyone was telling us something different. You, my dear.... You gave us no choice and taught me by hook or by crook how to be a mom. Thank you. I learned - slowly but surely - to ignore outside voices and to my gut instincts (after all, that's where you started) and listen to you and you alone.... And you know what? I think we've fared fairly well.
That's not to say you've been a perfect angel. Far from it. But you do listen to us when we tell you the "N" word in our house (No!), even if we sometimes have to repeat it with varying degrees of volume and persistence. Your booty is too small to spank, so like my grandmother, I have to resort to firmly pinching you on the sensitive part behind your arm. But so far your worst offense has been throwing food off the high chair to Dante. Once, after you'd been warned three times, I reached out and pinched your arm. You replied with a hurt expression, a "na-ah," and a tiny gentle pinch right back. Clearly I'd hurt your feelings. But we're figuring it out together.
(And a side note to any who are gearing up to type any sort of reply that includes any phrase similar to "just you wait....." SHOVE IT. It is NOT supportive, encouraging, or productive in the least. I heard it when Avery started pulling up, crawling, walking, running, and on, and I am SICK OF IT. Stop sullying happy wonderful milestones with feelings of dread. You were probably one of the voices I had to drown out earlier and a contributor to dangerous depression.)
But back to you, our little monster. You have discovered crayons, and you currently have a process that is very similar to stippling: you cram as many colors as your little hand can possibly hold, then you throw them against the paper, creating a somewhat crazed, dotted effect. This fascinates you, and you do it for literally minutes at a time.
Plastic Easter eggs are another favorite of yours, and you love to play Easter egg hunt in the living room, toddling around with my old white basket and picking up anything that will fit and putting it in the basket. Then you'll grow a wild hair and shake the heck out of the basket, throwing everything out. .... and repeat putting things in the basket.
The highlight of your day is when Daddy comes home. He scoops you up in his arms, and quick as a wink you steal his pen out of his pocket. Next to your dad, Dante and Kearney are still your favorite buddies, and sometimes you help me prepare to leave the house by closing Dante up in his kennel. You also like to help me put ice cubes into a bottle of water or a martini shaker (see the martini dance). You have an awesome fascination with shoes, and you want to put on everybody's; you even know which shoe goes on the correct foot, which really amazes me.
Even though you were given no fewer than twenty-seven lovies upon your birth (true story: I counted.), you have nothing to do with them. A true engineer's daughter like your great-great-grandmother, you are no-nonsense, and you love anything with buttons, electricity, or a power cord. You can usually be found toddling around with my phone charger in one hand and have been known to go to sleep with the pool key tightly clutched in your tiny grasp.
Few things on this planet delight you more than feeding us something from your plate; you giggle and crow with glee when Daddy or I eats something out of your hand. And we now must carefully watch the trash. Just last night Daddy found a wash cloth in the recycle bin.
We are so proud of you. Thankful for you. Happy to be with you. You have given your daddy and me a pure joy and have fulfilled our lives in so many ways, more than you will ever know.
Love,
Mama
