Birdzone, you are sixteen months old. And that’s, like, a big deal because you’ve now been “out” for double the amount of time you were “in.” That’s some nice, neat math that I can handle. (Unlike the calculations of how many diapers your dad and I have changed in the last sixteen months. That’s a staggeringly gross number.)
Every day with you is a a strange little circus (with you as the short ringmaster and me as the bear on a unicycle). The learning curve now has Dexcom-esque double arrows up, because you are doing something new every single day.
You have inherited your mama’s techno-joy. You want to hug and snuggle my cell phone (when it rings, you are astounded), and you have your own “cell phone” (an old Blackberry of mine) that you wander around the house with, “talking.” You love the Dexcom receiver (and you also loved Abby’s Dexcom receiver, smashing mine and hers together at CBC this week and disrupting the diabetes space-time continuum). And you love the remote control. If it has buttons, you want to push them. Including your belly-button, which you’ve recently discovered and you obsessively check to make sure it’s still there.
“And my mom was all BLAH BLAH BLAH …“
Your hair continues to be an evolving, yet beautiful crisis. Because you have more hair that most adults, you get warm fast. Actually, you start to sweat madly whenever the sun is out (or at least that’s been your deal this summer … we don’t have much to compare it to), so keeping your hair off your neck and out of your face is a struggle. Thankfully, it’s finally long enough for what I’ve been dreaming of since I found out you were going to be a girl.
I freaking love pigtails. I couldn’t be happier that you’re patient as I comb your hair into these two, crazy ponytails, and I love that when you run, they bounce like rabbits. Pigtails rule.
You toddle around the house and the yard, talking your face off all day long. There’s no way you don’t have a sore throat by the end of every day because you are always BabbleTown, talking to your feet, the cats, one particular tree in the backyard, anyone who calls on the phone, and to each person you come into contact with during the day. You. Have. A. Lot. To. Say. (No clue where you get this chattiness from …)
I do have one concern, though.
Dude, I don’t know what your deal is, but you love boys. All kinds. You tried to hug the ancient man at the grocery store who complimented your curly hair. You flirt with guys my age at the grocery store (which is super awkward – “No, she has a dad. I’m all set, thanks.”). And at the pediatrician’s office this week, you tried to snag an older man – this cute little 11 year old kid who was there for his before-school physical. After batting your eyes at him for ten minutes, you went over and tried to climb into his lap, repeatedly offering him some raisins. “OMG, Birdy, leave that boy alone!” But he was super chill, and said, “It’s okay. She’s so cute. I don’t mind if she wants to play.” So you and that 11 year old boy chatted and giggled.
“I’m Kerri,” I said to the boy’s father, who was smiling at The Bird and His Boy. “Nice to meet you, and thanks for letting my kid bother your kid.”
“Hi. I was about to introduce myself to you. I have to, seeing as how we are going to be in-laws.”
Stop flirting, Birdy. You are making my head explode.