Oh my goodness, are you really seventeen months old? So big! And with this new milestone comes your INTENSE PERSONALITY. Since your arrival seventeen months ago, you've been the most chilled out, happy baby. You have always been quick to smile, laugh, and hug. We've heard from a lot of people that you're a super easy baby to take care of, and we've always been thankful for that fact.
So I'm sure everyone is snickering behind their hands now that you're in Tantrum Mode.
Oh, tantrums. You had your first public fit two weeks ago, and it was extreme. (Or at least for you. And me. I remember sweating instantly, in a complete panic.) We were at the mall, in line paying for something, and you decided that the stroller was not working out for you anymore. So instead of raising your arms to be picked up, or saying "Maaa! Maaaa!" and waiting for me to rescue you, you opted to arch your back, flail your arms and legs, and make a sound not unlike a weasel in a woodchipper. "Naaaaaawwwww! Maaa maaaa!! Grrrrr!" Like the still-new-mama that I am, I made the mistake of letting you loose. In the store. Before I'd finished at the register.
What came next was a very awkward, very loud combination of me trying to hold you in my arms while paying for our purchase, while you hollered and tried to eat my face. But then you became distracted by the very handsome boy behind the register. "Oh, she's happy to see me!" he said, smiling and adjusting the sweater tied around his neck. "Yes, she loves boys. It's so awkward, but she's a flirt." He leaned in as he put the purchase into a bag. "I know what she means. I love boys, too!"
And you tried to give him a high-five. Birdy: 1, Mama: 0.
Tantrums are still rare, but you bust them out at home now, too. I've never been a mom before, so I'm not sure how to handle you when you're throwing a fit, but I tend to completely ignore you. (After giving you a big warning first. "If you continue to throw a fit, I'm going to stand right here and ignore you until you're done? Ready? Ignoring you ... now.") You push on for a few more seconds, but then you stop, stare at me as I pretend not to watch you, and then you stand up and tug on my sleeve. "Mamamamamama?"
Mama: 1, Birdy: 0.
Words are spilling out of you at a rapid rate these days. Topping the list just this week are: dirt, auntie, bathroom, thanks, and rock-rock (for your rocking chair). You repeat everything I say, which means that my curse word use has deceased significantly and I'm in full-on Yosemite Sam mode. (Fricka fracka.) And you babble on and on, talking animatedly to anything that will sit still long enough for you to pummel it with your words.
You are an amazing little lunatic. I love watching you become a little girl, complete with sweet smiles, goofy laughs, and a stubborn streak that I can't figure out the origin of. (Whoops.) I love you, love you, love you, and if you continue to go over to the pots and pans cupboard and return proudly with the colander on your head, I will personally find a way to restart the space program, you crazy astronaut, you.
Love always and to the moon (and back),