For nineteen months, you have been my best friend and my littlest bird. And in the last few weeks in particular, you have become a lovely little tornado of terror. If you aren't clutching fistfuls of crayons and scribbling on the wall, you are trying to smoosh the cats or chew on discarded glucose meter strips. (Mommy knew that was coming - it was only a matter of time. I'm much more careful now about getting those dead strips into the garbage.)
You are still my best friend and my littlest bird ... you're just decidedly more destructive these days. Like yesterday, when you were "helping" by determinedly unsettling every pile of leaves I was raking. Or when you "help" me fold laundry by grabbing shirts off the top of the pile and waving them over your head with your "Mama!" battle cry. Or when you want to "help" change your diaper by trying to grab it and whip it off before I've ... contained the situation. (This is a fun one.)
You have inherited your mama's awkward dance skills, but you rock hard to your favorite artists (Beastie Boys, Adele, Radiohead, and some downright tacky Christina Aguilera), and you even participated in the Big Blue Test with me this month, getting our dance party on.
This month, you've taken the alphabet and made it your plaything. I don't know exactly when you made the connection, but you now know most of the letters in the alphabet. (I had my first clue when you were in the bathtub and shouting "P!!!" I thought you PEED! but instead you were holding the yellow letter P in your hands. Also, why did the manufacturers make the letter P yellow? Well-played, Toy Company.) You point out letters to me all the time. ("Arrrrr!" "Seeeeee!" "Beeeee," closely followed by "Buzzzz." Oh those homonyms.) I know I was an early reader, and I hope you're on that same path, because I'd love a fellow book addict in our house.
And you're happy. Kid, you are the happiest little ball of curly-haired chaos that I've ever met in my life. There's something inside of you that is tightly-wound and always grinning, and I'm very thankful that you dole out smiles with far more frequency than tantrums. (Even though you are a Class A tantrum thrower, having just added the word "NO!" to your vocabulary and using it with reckless abandon.) Even when I ask you the same question over and over again, you are patient and tolerant with your mother's foolishness. And you don't mind when I giggle at you for asking for a "dodo" (aka "doughnut") when we drive through the coffee shop in the morning.
I've been traveling a lot lately, and I miss you terribly when I'm gone. But when you and Daddy pick me up at the airport, and I see you waving from your carseat as I walk towards you with my suitcase, my whole world is right.
"Hi Birdy!! I love you!"
You're my little butterfly, flitting around the house in your pajamas. (I still laugh that you call "butterflies" "bras." It makes for interesting dinner conversation.) You forgave me for accidentally washing a black crayon with your laundry, making your little, pink doggy more of a chimney sweep. You make me see the magic in every day, even when you're coloring the walls.
I love you with my whole heart, Birdy. You bring major happies to our lives.