Only to see Emma making every effort to ride one of the cats.

“Ride!” she squealed. “Go, go!”

And when poor Ash escaped, Emma hurried after her, lifting her leg to hop back on whenever she got within range.

Somehow, I doubt the Children’s Museum is going to top that.

I have high hopes that we’ll be able to continue our lack of a relationship after this. You’ll fire a zinger that will miss the mark by a mile, I’ll call you a llama-faced doofus, and we’ll go on.  It’ll all be okay, because you don’t know me, and I don’t know you.

Which means that you don’t know what buttons to push to get me really and truly boiling, and I don’t know the topics to spark your temper. We’ll keep it light, work out a little aggression, and move on. So what if I don’t like your socks, right?

What I’m trying to say with this, I think, is that if I loved John a little less, I would be less eager to kick him in the teeth right now. But since he’s been my sun and moon for the last ten-and-a-half years, I’ll settle for taking my boots off first.

Love you, babe. Really.

The good was completely unexpected. John was attempting to work some magic on my mom’s uncooperative computer, and while he was flipping through a basket of old floppy disks, he came across one with his own handwriting on the label.

We glanced at each other confusedly; it didn’t ring any immediate bells. But he popped the disk in and opened up the lone file stored on it, and then we were clued in.

Poetry. John’s poetry. From high school. And some of it made us howl with glee, and some of it made us share a smile. We were different then, and yet so many things are the same. There are a lot of things about my high school days I don’t consciously revisit; John and the foundations we laid then are obvious exceptions.

The not-so-good was as simple as picking up the phone to call my grandma and tell her what time we’d be there the next day. She didn’t answer. I heard the beep of an answering machine, and three seconds later, I was leaning into the wall, sobbing. It was my grandpa’s voice asking me to leave a message, in those warm, kind tones I’ve missed so much.

I didn’t know; I wasn’t ready. I understand the reasons for leaving it that way - she misses him, too, and she feels safer having his voice on the machine. Maybe it makes her feel less alone.

But I doubt it.

“Where’s the goddamn nurse?”

On the other side of the too-thin green curtain, a woman was hyperventilating. Her companions were loudly demanding attention. They were asked to be patient; they declined that request and increased their volume. Security guards came and walked them out of the emergency room.

Through the commotion, Emma curled onto her side in an oversized blue gown, trying to kick her legs free of the wires from her monitors, and fell asleep on her hospital bed.

—

Between the three of us, the week added up to five antibiotics, four visits to the doctor, half a million Kleenex, and no sleep. John and I were both bowled over by the flu, as sick as either of us could remember being. And with no family nearby, and friends who were sick themselves, there was no relief to be found. We popped the pills we were given, drank marathon amounts of fluids, and tried to keep going.

Through it all, Emma seemed to be doing the best of all of us. She’d seen the doctor, who’d pronounced her mostly healthy, with just some fluid in her ears and a slight cough. By Sunday night, her appetite had come back, the cough had gone, and it seemed that she, at least, was on the road to recovery.

She woke up cranky from her second nap of the day, unusual in itself because she’s been down to a single nap for the last few months. We chalked the crankiness up to the germs working their way out of her system. She’s never cranky. I loaded her into the high chair; her skin was cool under my fingertips.

I gave her some carrots and crackers to start with, and then I gave in to weariness. I did what you never do to a toddler: I turned my back. I did, though, I turned my back on her, and let myself sink onto the couch for a few seconds. At an odd noise, I turned around. She was slumped against the pink-and-white checks of the high chair, and her entire tiny body was shaking.

John and I acted at the same time, both darting forward. I yanked the tray off; he released the straps, and he grabbed Emma and laid her on the couch. She was still seizing, her eyes rolled up in her head. Her lips were already going blue. More than a seizure, then — she was choking, too. I don’t know how I kept moving through my panic.

He pounded her back, trying to dislodge whatever it was hindering her breathing. I fumbled for the phone, and managed to tell the 911 operator the problem and the address.

I saw John bend to puff a breath into Emma’s mouth as he yelled for her to breathe.

I took the phone and ran out the door, sock-clad feet slapping against the wet pavement. Across the street, I pounded on our neighbor’s door, and it seemed like hours before she answered the door in her pajamas.

“Do you know CPR?” I demanded of her, already turning around. “Emma’s choking. She’s having a seizure.”

Barefoot, she followed me, and we ran back to the living room, where John had Emma turned on her side. The seizure was over, and our neighbor - a trauma nurse - quickly took charge.

“She’s breathing,” were the first words I remember. “She’s okay” came next. I still had the phone to my ear, and the operator told me help was there.

Ridiculously, the man who ran up to the door knocked before John waved him in. He knelt beside Em and our neighbor briskly checked his credentials and his equipment. Soon, there were half a dozen people in the living room. Someone started asking John questions; I crouched by my baby and watched her chest rise and fall.

Em was moaning, her eyes half-closed. Her temperature only read 100.0, but the immediate feeling was that she’d had another febrile seizure. Not uncommon and not that serious, all things considered - but terrifying.

It was at least 20 minutes before she started to come around to the point where she knew where she was and who was with her. We decided that she was acting atypically enough to merit a trip to the ER; I rode with her, while John came behind.

Things were as calm as they could have been at that point. Even the ambulance ride was relatively peaceful - no lights, no sirens. I’d been asked to sit up front, but I kept my eyes glued to the screen that showed me where Emma was wiggling on the gurney as the paramedic tried to soothe her.

We were dumped back into chaos when I carried her into the emergency room - after the noise in the next curtain died down, a woman’s voice filled the emptiness with a vast amount of unsolicited advice on how to react when your boyfriend chokes you. (”I smacked him good! I’m not gonna press charges, though, else he won’t give me a ride home.”)

After answering a litany of questions about Emma’s symptoms and her history, they let us go. Febrile seizures just happen; there was no warning. Her temperature never went higher than 100.5; that it spiked so quickly was the problem.

Nothing in my life has ever left me as vulnerable as my love for Emma. Seeing her pale and shaking - broken in a way I could not fix - that’s as scared and helpless as I could be. And rationally, I know that turning away for the space of a few heartbeats didn’t cause her seizure, that there is no permanent harm done, that my sweet girl is whole and healthy and happy. But there is nothing like being a parent to remind you how often you fail, and how much it hurts to fall short.

She doesn’t know that I let her down.

“She’s going to be able to get out of bed, you know. And come to our room.”

“Yeah.” [pause] “We have a lot of Emma-proofing to do.”

We knew it was coming; we just weren’t ready for it so soon. “Soon” being on Tuesday, when the bed is coming. I think what’s harder for me is that the toddler bed means more than your ability to climb out and watch late-night TV. It means one more step down the road to you growing up, which is ground we’re covering far too fast for my liking.

You’ll be a little less protected, and I’m fairly sure you’ll love it. Who am I kidding? With the exception of having your ears checked at the pediatrician’s office, you’ve been pretty universally delighted with every new experience, whether it’s licking the window, torturing the cats with your affection, or removing your diaper when I turn my head.

This weekend marked your first time playing in the snow, another milestone you embraced with gusto. I bundled you into your bibs and boots, stood you up in the hallway, and your dad asked if you could walk.

“No!” you declared emphatically, contradicting yourself by taking a few waddling steps down the carpet. Once you made it outside, you squatted. We waited, expecting your lavendar-clad bottom to hit the snow, but you simply kept squatting.

Your favorite part of the snow was touching it. Tasting it. Digging your fingers in - I think the longest you left a mitten on was approximately .009 seconds - and squealing with joy at the cold. You squished it between your fingers, trying to discovers all the mysteries of the fascinating white stuff, while your dad tried (in vain) to build the perfect snowman.

Your first day in the snow was for me what most of your firsts have been: A gift. Seeing through your eyes makes me a little less jaded, a little more grateful. And also really glad that none of the snow you ate was yellow.

You’re two now, and though by the time you’re able to read this, that fact won’t be news to you, I’ve had more than a month to let it sink it, and it still seems monumental to me. Funny, though — when I tell someone that you’ve reached this milestone, they smile knowingly and welcome me to the terrible twos.

They’re absolutely right.

It’s terrible how utterly charming I find you, even when you leave a juice trail behind you and remove your own diaper at the most inopportune moments. And it’s awful that when I say your name in a stern voice, it always ends in laughter, because at the first sign of impending discipline, you whirl around, wide-eyed, and then drop flat-bellied to the floor like you’ve undergone emergency preparedness training for toddlers.

“Get on the ground! She’s going to put your diaper back on! And after that, she’ll make you wear socks! DO YOU WANT TO WEAR SOCKS? I didn’t think so! Drop, drop, drop!”

You’re beginning to master the art of telling us what you want, and maybe we should have sent you to charm school instead of disaster training, because a simple request often goes like this:

“Juice?” you say in that perfectly pleading tone. Usually, whoever you’ve asked starts to fill this order right away, but after two seconds have passed, you become impatient.

“Juiiice?” It’s already too late. Whether the refrigerator is already open and the juice is in hand, you are convinced that there will never be any more juice distributed to you. Ever.

“JUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE! WANT JUICE! JUIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE!” Now it’s up to the juice-giver to crouch down, since by this point, you’re generally prone on the floor, sobbing your little dehydrated heart out, and force the sippy cup into your tightly clenched fists.

Slowly, you sit up, clutching the sippy to your chest, and take a long drink, the tears still visible on your cheeks. “Juiiiice,” you murmur, and three seconds later, the cup is abandoned on the floor and you’re back to terrorizing the cats with your affection.

You’re picking up new words at a rate that amazes me. I think the greatest shock you’ve given me is when you walked over to the couch, laid your hands on my leg, and smiled up at me.

“Kewwy,” you said cheerfully, and your daddy and I froze with this added reminder that you really do hear, and process, everything. That’ll be “ma” to you, my clever darling who usually only likes to pronounce the first syllable of words (with the exception of elbow, which has always been “bow”).

To the chagrin of your father, you seem to be following in my bookworm footsteps. None of your toys hold your attention as much as your books do, and you’re forever bringing me a book, climbing into my lap, and asking, “Read?”

That, or you’ll sit on the floor, flipping the pages by yourself, pointing to the pictures you recognize and naming them. Two is terrifying indeed, because everything you accomplish makes me feel like I’m the one who’s going to burst with pride, and I know you’re just going to keep going.

Every hug we give is returned now, and the first time you put your arms around my neck and squeezed, it left me breathless. You’re only beginning to understand about love, but you know enough to want to give it back. Sometimes, you decide that one hug is not enough, so you’ll hug whoever’s nearest, happily call out, “Hug!” and then run full-tilt into the open arms of anyone else in the room.

Terrible never felt this terrific, and we owe it all to you.

Love,

Mommy

I’m trying. There’s no Christmas tree to be found in my house, but I spent about five hours making, icing, and decorating Christmas cookies. That endeavor required me to then establish the Island of Misfit Holiday Baked Goods, because far too many of my delicate snowflakes ended up looking like legless bodies, blobby asterisks, and even middle fingers. I won’t go into what they tasted like; I’ve only just gotten the taste out of my mouth.

This year, Christmas is for Emma, and I know I’ll find my smile when I watch her tear open her presents. Actually, she’ll tear half the wrapping paper off a present, utter an awed “Wow!” and move on to the next box. We could wrap wooden spoons and empty boxes, and I think she’d be just as thrilled.

I can’t do what I’d like to for most of the people in my life. There are friends who I’d love to be mailing packages off to, family who, in other circumstances, I’d be clumsily wrapping gifts for. (”Oh, it’s a sweater! The way you wrapped it, I thought it might be an umbrella.”) It’s not possible this year, and although I know that’s not what this is about, it’s a part of Christmas that I enjoy.

We got buried in snow over the weekend. I like snow. I appreciate how it looks when it’s falling, and when it’s pristine on the ground. Four days later, when the alley is still a ice-covered slushway and getting the mail turns into a suicide mission, it’s lost a bit of its luster. Make that all of its luster.

I knew I’d hit a low point last night when I was making my second trip of the day to WalMart. (”…”) I popped a Christmas CD in and determined to dig up some good cheer. And then a man - probably a very nice man - began singing to me. Good voice, nice tone, but then he ruined it. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” he warbled.

Viciously, I stabbed the power button on my radio.

Christmas spirit: A work-in-progress by Kerry.

Two days ago, I kept my promise. I only wish it hadn’t been at his funeral.

I knew I was going to lose him, had known for more than a week. I knew it before he came home from the hospital after the massive stroke that left him unable to swallow, partially paralyzed, and restricted to nods, eye-blinks, and “yes” to communicate. I knew it when he pulled out his feeding tube once, then again, and I certainly knew it when the tube wasn’t re-inserted.

My uncle flew home. A hospital bed appeared in the living room of my grandparents’ peaceful country home, the site of my brightest and best childhood memories.

—

It says a lot - everything, maybe - about how impossible it’s been for me to write this post when you consider that I started drafting it back in September, and I haven’t touched it since then. Since then, we’ve had Thanksgiving without my grandpa, an awful day where my grandma did two things to make me weep.

She hugged me. Not as an awkward afterthought, or one of those things you do because you’re family and it’s Thanksgiving (either of which were more likely to be the reason behind a hug before). I walked into the room and she held out her arms, and I bit my lip bloody to keep the tears back - that, more than anything she could say, told me just how lonely she was.

But then she did tell me, in another stunningly uncharacteristic move. I have never doubted that my grandma loves me; I know she does. But she’s a very practical woman, and constant hugs and long talks are not part of the way she’s made. She hugged me, seeming more frail than I’ve ever noticed, and whispered in my ear.

“I’m sad.”

So am I. So are all of us. Still. He was that kind of man, and I very much want to memorialize him properly, but I’m not ready. I’m still dealing. It hits unexpectedly - when I walk by a mall display of sweater vests, or stumble across a particularly intriguing puzzle. I can look through a photo album and see my toddler self on his lap without tears, but show me a jar of gooseberry preserves and I’ll fall apart.

There are a million different ways to grieve someone. I’m still finding mine.

On Monday, she’s having a CT scan. I won’t go into masses of details, but her doctor wants to be sure we aren’t missing any underlying causes for some of the issues she’s had. Her doctor suggested it at Emma’s 12-month checkup. It was like a snowball to the face, and neither John or I knew there was a snowball fight going on.

Her physical therapy’s been going really well. We’ve seen steady improvement, and she’s reaching important milestones. All I was expecting to hear was that she looked great.

“She looks great,” the doctor said. “But …” And she proceeded to explain why she thought the scan was a good idea. I don’t disagree, and in fact I’m grateful that she’s being proactive.

The facts remain that my daughter - my baby - is having a procedure done to check for abnormalities, and that she has to be sedated for it to happen. I’ve called friends and family and talked through my worries with them. Some have been nonchalant. Some have jumped on the mommy bandwagon and fretted right along with me. I need both. I rely on John’s calm understanding and reassurance to keep me moderately sane, and I feel a little better when B says, “Oh my goodness, Kerry! Of course you’re worried!”

It’s just one of those things that I have to go through as her mother - one of those times where I wish I had a thousand pink hats in her closet. To protect her.

What a difference a year makes.

I wanted to write this without getting all weepy about how fast you’re growing or all sappy about how much I love you, but I’m going to fail miserably at both of those, and I can’t find it in me to care.

Your daddy and I look at each other daily and say that you’re such a big girl now. You eat  Chex and refuse to have anything to do with the baby snacks you’re supposed to love. You pull the TiVo remote out of Daddy’s hand and pause whatever he’s watching. (Accidentally, of course, but it still amuses us both.) You cruise all around the furniture, literally trying to climb the walls, and I watch you discovering new things.

This year has been a privilege for me. I don’t get tired of your firsts - I’m simply glad to be here as they happen. You pulled yourself all the way up while I was at work, and your daddy called to tell me, and the first thing I thought was that I missed that moment in your life.

It’s been hard to be at work while you’re here at home. The two people I love most in the world spend their days together, and I sneak in a half-hour in the morning and a few hours in the evening. It’s not enough. And although I know that being here and taking care of you all the time would be ten times - a hundred times - harder than my job, it would be infinitely more rewarding. No one at work has your dimples, or your charm.

You really are growing up too fast. The tiny girl who couldn’t hold her head up on her own now this time last year is now the big girl who snatches her bottle out of my hands to feed herself, and who shoveled birthday cake into her mouth like a pro. Three weeks ago, you didn’t even want to chew. This is where I think we need a pause button, so I can remember.

You have a cold right now, and though I’d never be glad you were sick, there is a tiny bright side for a sentimental mommy. Any other time, you twist in my arms, looking for the fun to be had on the floor. But last night, I picked you up, and you laid your head on my shoulder and sighed. I would have held you that way all night, if you’d have let me.

You changed everything when you came, and nothing I’ve learned in the last twelve months makes me want to change it back.

I love you, sweet girl, and so does your daddy. Happy first birthday, baby.

Love,

Mommy

It’s hard to believe we’re already here, just weeks away from your first birthday.

You’ve become an adventurer, no longer content to stay in a single spot on the floor and play with a single toy. There are more toys to play with, more places to see, and you want to make sure you’re not missing anything.

By now, you’ve Army-crawled your way through most of the house, finding every piece of fuzz the vacuum missed. You lift rugs to see what treasures are hidden beneath. (More fuzz, usually.) You squeal “gitty!” and wriggle toward the cats, who are wise enough to flee in your wake. The cats’ toys are more appealing than yours, and they apparently pass infant taste tests, because we are forever prying them out of your mouth.

You love solids but hate foods with bits in them. We’ve tried several different things, hoping to coax you into chewing, and you are wise to every trick in the parenting playbook. Your daddy put an apple-flavored wagon wheel in your hand last week - a food you had never seen before - and as soon as your fist closed around it, you scowled and shook your head.

Sorry, we forgot - You don’t like to chew.

I’ve given up on your hair, and rather than cut it myself, I’m going to take you to my stylist, who would never forgive me if I butchered your bangs. I’m a wee bit nervous about your reaction, but it’ll probably be minor compared to your great-grandma’s rant if your hair’s in your eyes for Thanksgiving dinner.

I don’t think you’ll really mind, though - there are few things that make you unhappy. Your smile is sunshine when I’m bleary-eyed at 4 a.m. (4 a.m.? You’ve been sleeping ’til 6!) and your laughter’s like music, even when you’ve just stuck your fist into the squishy contents of your diaper.

You don’t like holding still to snuggle - there’s too much to do! - but every so often, your rest your cheek on my shoulder long enough for me to get one good squeeze.

Love,

Mommy

This is the point: Always use a bib. If your 10-month-old, like mine, eats a jar of baby food and keeps her adorable elephant bib pristine, don’t buy it. Because here’s what happens next.

A clean bib’s in the next room, and you’ve already got the food in front of her. She’ll cry if you step away, even for the five seconds it would take, and remember! There was no mess last time!

So you sit down and offer her a spoonful of today’s concoction - some horrific combination like apples and chicken in the same jar - and she accepts it readily. You breathe a silent sigh of relief, because another one of your parenting choices proved correct.

And then she smiles at you, and every last molecule of the apples and chicken that just disappeared into her mouth come drooling their way back out, sliding down her chin, into the rolls of her neck, and then down her shirt.

She will take advantage of this opportunity to grab the strap holding her in the high chair and shove it into her mouth, spreading the strangely colored mess even further from its original destination.

You can dart for that bib now, for all the good it will do you. Fasten it on, ensuring that the ooze on her shirt will mold itself to the back of the bib, and continue.

Time for dessert, and what a lucky choice that tonight is apple blueberry, because the purplish color looks ravishing next to the yellow-orange already smeared liberally on those chubby baby cheeks.

Taking abstract art to a previously unimagined place - now you know what it would have looked like if Jackson Pollock had used peas instead of paint.

Though maybe Dali is a better comparison, since the amount of food that did not manage to make its way into her mouth is absolutely surreal.

We thought yesterday was going to be a big deal. You turned 10 months old, and that happened to coincide with the annual historical festival that your daddy and I always go to. I freely admit that the big draw is the food - I plan for you to learn the phrase “forfar bridie” as soon as possible - but we thought you’d like it.

There’s so much to see. It’s held on the grounds of an old fort, and it stretches on for what seems like miles, with tents and costumes and drummers everywhere. We loaded you into your stroller and went through the front gate, and your daddy and I grinned at each other, already anticipating your reaction.

We’re, uh, still waiting.

The fife and drum corps was marching by, and we parked your stroller so you could see. You glanced up for a second, and then deliberately turned your head and stuck your plastic keys into your mouth.

Whatever, I imagined you thinking. My toys make better music than that.

You did show a bit of interest when we ate in front of you. Daddy dropped a crumb onto your blanket, and you snatched at it, and that was pretty much the limit of your interaction with the whole event.

The opening ceremonies conflicted with the nap you’d decided to take, so we strolled around while you slept. The sound of a hundred or so muskets firing in unison woke you, and you blinked sleepily at me, as if to wonder why I wasn’t yelling at them for disturbing you. After all, that’s what I do to your daddy.

Even the firing of the cannons didn’t faze you. You didn’t flinch, even when every other baby in the vicinity began to howl. I had a momentary flash of panic, wondering if you’d suddenly lost your hearing, but then I said your name, and you met my eyes immediately.

Are we boring you, Em? Sorry. It wasn’t the big adventure for you that we’d expected, but we did get a picture of you wearing your new hat, and so the day wasn’t a bust.

You are two months shy of being a year old, and you’re in constant motion. You wriggle and writhe in our arms until we let you loose on the floor, where the cats flee in terror and our toes are never safe.

Love,

Mommy

I hadn’t worn my black silk blouse in a while, so I pulled it out of the closet, and it passed inspection when I put it on. Then I sat down on the couch to give Emma her bottle. We played for a little while, and then it was time to leave for work. I stood up and had the immediate thought that the house was chillier than it had been half an hour ago. I happened to glance down and noticed why immediately.

Only the top button of my blouse was still fastened. Below that, there was … well, skin. Emma hadn’t been fiddling with the buttons, so somehow they’d just spontaneously come undone. It was a wardrobe choice John would wholeheartedly approve of, but not one for public consumption.

So I changed and headed to the garage. I opened the door, flipped on the light, and let out a screech that probably hurt the ears of every dog in range. A spider. A big, fat, fuzzy spider, right by the chest freezer. (Its body was the size of a silver dollar, at least. You’d have screeched, too.) I snatched up my shoes and retreated into the house, where I attempted to bribe John to come deal with it.

Even offering to put the black blouse back on wasn’t enough to lure him out from under the covers, so I put on my shoes, opened the door, and took a flying leap past the freezer.

Spider avoided.

My morning at work was like all the others - long and painful. About 20 minutes before lunch, my boss stopped in the doorway of my cubicle.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said back.

“Can you come with me for a minute?”

Oh, God. Instantly, a chorus of “You’re fired! You’re fired!” ran through my head, and I barely managed a weak nod. I stood up, expecting to follow her across the hall, to her own office. But she kept going, and then the freaking out began in earnest.

The director’s office. Her boss. No possible reason why the three of us would be having an impromptu meeting - unless the worst was about to happen. At the moment, I was completely convinced that John and I were both about to be without a job, and I’m not sure how I stayed on my feet.

She turned the corner into his office, where there’s a small conference area. But he wasn’t there. The confusion - or possibly the pure fear - had to be showing on my face, because my boss turned to me.

“Oh!” she said, with what I expect was meant to be a reassuring air. “It’s good news!”

Now I was completely lost. What good news? It couldn’t be a promotion or a raise - the first would be pointless on our team of three, and the second was blatantly impossible. My mind was racing through the possibilities and coming up blank. Finally, she went on.

“Have you ever heard of special merit pay?”

The light dawned, and it was bright and beautiful. I was, indeed, familiar with the term - I helped write the policy. It’s the equivalent of a bonus. Bonus. Money. Me.

She was going on, telling me how much she appreciated my recent work on a big project and how I’d stepped right into a difficult situation, but I was only half-listening. My brain was caroling, “Christmas for Emma! Bills! Groceries!”

As in, we could handle those things now. I will say only that this one-time note of relief is desperately appreciated, more than I could ever express to my boss.

The next time my blouse becomes unexpectedly slutty, or a spider leers at me on my home turf, I think I’ll still change my shirt and squeal like the girliest of girls. But I might just look forward to the rest of the day. ‘Cause you never know.

Weeks ago, when I first started writing this post, you had just turned nine months old. It was a big day, as firsts go. You went to the playground and we put you in the swing, and you loved it.

Then we went home, and you tried your first finger food, a banana-flavored fruit puff. Your daddy and I watched in great anticipation as we set the puff down on the tray of your high chair. You spotted it instantly and did what you do with everything, whether it’s food or not: You popped it into your mouth.

Apparently, though, the folks at Gerber need to talk to the people who make all your toys about some taste tests. Judging from the look on your face when the puff hit your tongue, you would rather eat cardboard, plastic, or an entire cat’s tail. Such a face. (No worries - you’ll get to see what I’m talking about. We have it on video.)

You do not want to sit up by yourself. You can - I’ve seen you do it, in those rare moments when you forget how much more fun it is to flop onto your belly and scoot across the floor. You haven’t given me gray hair yet. I suspect that’s because I’m well on my way to being bald, since your preferred method of greeting is to bonk your forehead into mine and fist your hands in my hair. Nice grip there, sweetheart.

You love the cats. Every time you notice one, you squeal something that sounds like “GITTY” and they scatter. (They’re familiar with your grip, too.)

You also love it when I read to you. We sit in the rocking chair, and when I start to read, you twist your head to look up at me, your smile as wide as the ocean. It’s our time, and you seem to know that.

There will always be time for us to read together.

Love,

Mommy