The world is yours to figure out, and you're making leaps and bounds every day. No longer my baby but now a kid with the highest, squeakiest little voice I've ever heard, I watch every day as you make sense of this existence.
You have learned that when I make airplane noises with your fork or spoon, it encourages you to take a bite of those slightly off-putting peas, or maybe a mouthful of chicken. But you've taken to making airplane noises of your own to make ME take a bite of those same gross peas. I can't say no when you're careening the fork towards my face, making your best "raaaaaarrr!" airplane noise.
We're done with that crib - "Cribs are for babies, okay, mama? I'm a big girl, only I'm still little but getting BIGGER." - and you're in a bed that doesn't keep you contained. Which means we have gone through that awkward "stay in bed" transition, where Mom and Dad need to trick you into staying in bed at night. There's a routine in play that I love with my whole heart: I climb into your bed and we snuggle, recapping what we did that day and talking about what we want to do tomorrow. And Daddy is on the floor, resting on a Thomas the Tank Engine pillow, listening to us ramble on. I go to leave - "Goodnight - I love you!" - and you ask, "Daddy stay for two more minutes?" Which he always does, because your little finger is where he lives, all wrapped around.
You have some semblance of what your mom and dad do to earn their keep around this house, only it's kind of confusing because most of these tasks seem to live inside of the computer. (Or, as you call it, "the 'puter.") You know he and I both write things for a living, and that you'd like to also write. "I like ALL the letters, mama."
The Dexcom is your new favorite plaything. "Oh, your DEXCOM!" You like to yell that particular word, probably because the thing is always yelling at me. (My blood sugar threshold alarms are set at 60 and 160 mg/dL, so around an hour or so after I eat, I hear the BEEEEEP! At which point you run and grab the receiver, then bring it to me, and tell me, "Time to checka meh-cine? Okay!") My "diabeedles" is something you're not highly concerned with, but you always give me a strange look when I test my blood sugar and then lick my finger. "Taste yummy? Or yucky?" And at the beach this week, you noticed my sensor was peeling off. "That come off soon." When it did yawn off, later in the day, you nodded with vigor. "Told you!"
Everything is so new, and you greet the day with an unrivaled level of amazement. The clothes coming out of the dryer, all clean and fresh, amaze you. The tree outside with the pears growing on it amazes you. Flying kites in the windy sky amazes you.
And you take the world in, marveling at every little inch of it, not noticing that your mom and dad are doing the same to you.
All my love,