November 7 - December 7, 2012Dear Carys,
First, I am not THAT horrible of a mother. I know I'm posting this late, but I promise you I had it 4/5 written and just now finally had a chance to finish it, thanks to SOMEONE'S cold and molars. Not naming any names, but it's you.
Your dad texted this pic to me while I was gone and said, "She's ready for work!"
So seventeen months really snuck up on me. I swear to God I was just writing your sixteen month letter a couple days ago. This month has flown by so quickly! I still can't believe it's going to be Christmas in a few weeks (OH MY GOD I NEED TO SHOP). You, however, I'm done shopping for and have been done with for ages. Yet I keep buying you things. You need everything, apparently. In fact, I am holding a few things back for your birthday because I got you too much, and since you have something like eight thousand relatives who love you and spoil you, you don't also need a bushel of toys from me. Also, I find it impossibly difficult to WAIT to give you your gifts. I just want to give you everything right away and see your face and see your joy as you enjoy it for approximately eight tenths of a second before you utterly and completely forget it.
There is no baby left in you. I miss baby Carys, but I love toddler Carys, and I'm fairly certain I'm going to adore little kid Carys as well. Tween and teen Carys we can negotiate. I hear things about those years. (shudder)
We did a lot this month. Thanksgiving, zoo, Children's Museum, hockey game, swimming at a friend's apartment, and probably even more but it's been at least a hundred hours since I last slept and I'm tired.
Enjoying the hockey game. A lot.
Overnight several weeks ago, you underwent a verbal explosion. Words you'd muddled before are now spoken clearly. Words you'd never said before came tumbling from your mouth. You repeat everything that is said to you. This isn't to say that you're a genius in your speaking ability - you might have slightly more words than average, though well within the range of normal. But I can see that you're on the cusp of something big. I think you'll be reading Tolstoy by next month at the latest.
Accompanying the words are more sounds. Apropos to the season, you know that Santa says "Ho ho ho" and you think reindeer say "neigh." (Although maybe they do. I should probably look that up.) Every day you bring me your dad's little Chromebook (if you're reading this in the distant future and you don't know what that is, it probably means your daddy's company has gone under and we're living in boxes) and ask for "ooh ooh ee ee." Which in toddler speak means, "Lady. Play the damn monkey video for me already!" Sometimes you want to watch "Sssssssss," which, obviously, means you want to torture your great-grandma, who is deathly afraid of snakes. You don't call any animals by name except "dog" and "cat" - they're "quack" or "moo" or "roar." One thing that I find fascinating is your ability to apply a label to animals across the board. For instance, it makes sense that you'd be able to recognize an elephant from a photo of an elephant, but you recognize cartoon elephants and stuffed elephants and even stylized elephants that barely look like elephants. There have been multiple times you've made the animal noise and I've totally missed that why yes, there is a Horton Hears a Who book on the shelf way over there and why yes, Horton IS an elephant. Good job, little one!
Thanksgiving (with your second cousin, Anika in the second group)
Your dad taught you two things this month. First, when he asks, "Who's your favorite?" you promptly respond, "Daddy!" If I ask who your favorite is, you say....daddy again. He really trained you well on that, darn it. He also taught you to recognize the Google logo (see previous note about daddy's company). You love finding the Google logo on his clothes and your clothes and the computer and notebooks and my clothes and yeah, we have a lot of Google stuff around this house. "Goo-ga!" Ah. Your dad's heart explodes.
I'm running out of body parts to teach you. You knew hair, eyes, nose, mouth, tongue, teeth, ears, arms, hands, fingers, tummy, belly button, bottom, back, legs, toes, and feet. We added cheeks, chin, and neck. I'm working on shoulders, elbows and knees. Then...what? Soles? Frenulam? Philtrum? Tragas? I think I just made that last one up.
You are a much nicer child this month. You don't hit or bite nearly as often as you used to, so whatever it was that we did to address that must have worked (note to self: what did I do?). You also overcame your two-week long fear of going through the hoop at swim class. I am still not sure what that was all about, but you're back to your normal happy self at swim class...plus some. You love blowing bubbles in the water, you kick when you're supposed to, and you jump off the side of the pool into the water (where I quickly catch you, but not before you sink just a bit!).
We've started to make you work for the roof over your head. Just kidding. These are from the previously mentioned trip to the Children's Museum.
One lawn mower isn't enough for my baby girl.
Your eyes aren't blue anymore. They aren't brown, though, either. I guess this is what they would call hazel? They're still blue in some lights, but greenish-gray in most. I think they're beautiful.
Loving on the dolls, and trying to sit them in the couch.
Things you don't love: Being told no. Eating. Medicine. Getting your nose wiped. When I dare do something without you. Laying still. When I don't let you play with the aforementioned scissors. Sleeping in. Me, when you don't sleep in.
Carys, tomorrow, how about you try to show me that you do love me?
I hardly can even write that jokingly, because **SAP ALERT** you show me in so many ways, even though you don't even know what love is yet. You don't even know what it is, but you've made me experience it in ways I never imagined. The way you nuzzle in my neck when you're tired, the way you call "Mommy!" when you wake up from your nap, the way you melt into me as you sit and watch an episode of Sesame Street. The way you stroke my hair as you nurse or cry if I cry. The way you share your food with me and the way you want me to do everything you're doing so that I can enjoy the fun. And yes, even the way you bang on the bathroom door when I am peeing for fear that something wonderful is happening in there that you're missing out on. I can't begin to come close to expressing my love for you, little girl. Can. not. come. close. Time is flying too fast. I need more time with you every day. The next hundred years won't be enough.
Love you so much, Carebear. So darn much.