Tuesday, October 4, 2011
1 and a half
Dear Ella B,
The other day you turned one and a half. To people without little kids, this probably doesn't seem like a big deal, but to us it is. Every day you are shedding a little more of your baby skin and becoming a person, a real person with thoughts, ideas, opinions, and dreams. You know exactly what you want. Today you got upset because I wouldn't keep my raincoat on in the house. Last week we had an argument about which dress you would wear for the school pictures you refused to take anyway. You won't wear the bunny shoes even though they fit you the best and are also super cute. You tell me "no" when I try to sing in the car, and you have to stand in the fridge to decide what you will eat for dinner.
You love your "nanights" or blankets and like to carry around several of them at a time. You like to put your princess chair on the couch and bounce in it, or use daddy as a slide. You have 13 teeth and your bark is just as big as your bite. You are starting to get the hang of the toothbrush. You have a butt that can already be called a booty. You hold your bangs up in the morning until someone does your hair Pebbles Flinstone style. You love to talk about our neighbor, Arlo, and even lie in bed singing his name until you fall asleep.
Sleep. You do that now. All on your own. It is hard to believe that just a year ago (less!) you were the baby I used to nurse all night on the couch because you just screamed if I tried to put you down. You are a bully at school, but they adore you. You are one of the favorites. You love it so much there that when I picked you up today you cried the whole way to the car saying "gool! gool! gool!" You love your Nene and your Pop Pop more than anything on Earth. You are fearless, and bratty, and terrible, and wonderful and you are mine.
It pains me to know that you won't remember this. It will be the stuff of legends to you, bedtime stories where you'll ask, "Tell me about the day I was born. Tell me about my tiny fingers and toes" as I did (do) to my mother. It is strange to be the memory keeper of someone else's life. It is a lot of responsibility to hold the sound of your tiny voice saying "Aya", the clomp of your quick, barbaric steps against the wood, the shrill laugh that comes when your father barely touches your neck, and to hold those images safe until you ask and I can say, "I remember, I remember, I remember..."