Dear Scarlette,
I flip the calendar page to December and write in important dates, like your first Christmas at home or mommy and daddy’s fifth wedding anniversary. I circle the seventh in red and shake my head because thirteen months can’t possibly have passed since the day I met you. You still look like my baby as I lay you on your scale, mark down a weight of fifteen pounds on your chart and dress you up in clothes with “six months” sewn in the label.
But here we are at thirteen months and while you may be tiny, your personality is big. You zoom across the room at a speed that would make superheroes jealous. I consider myself an athlete simply because I can beat you to the Christmas tree. Trust me, that’s no easy feat. You keep your mommy in shape. You can stand up on your own and will tentatively put one foot in front of the other before you fall to the ground in giggles. Your favorite game right now is called “Crawl On Daddy While He Is Playing Video Games” which is followed closely by “Wrangle The Video Game Controller From Daddy And Press All The Buttons Until His Character Dies.”
For a while you thought it was a funny game to toss your pacifier over the bed and then cry for me to come and rescue it for you. I started putting a few several ninety three pacifiers in your crib as a defensive measure in this battle. You know what they say: “Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line.” Sure I’m not Sicilian but whatever. Now when I go in to get you in the morning you’ll have one paci in your mouth and be clutching one in each hand. I make you leave them in your crib. Yesterday I took the paci out of your mouth and walked into the kitchen with you, where I noticed you sucking on a whole different pacifier. You had hidden one behind your back and popped it in your mouth when I wasn’t looking. You sneaky little thing!
Speaking of the kitchen, let’s talk about how you’re currently staging protests in there. The kitchen is where your tantrums take place. The first time you threw a tantrum I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. You’re just so tiny that to see those little legs kicking wildly against the floor after you threw yourself down was more comical than anything. I’m sorry to tell you that it didn’t have the intended effect. You only do this if you see me making your bottle. I don’t understand. I’m making the bottle IN ORDER TO GIVE IT TO YOU. But you’re all “THE BOTTLE! I SEE THE BOTTLE! IT ISN’T IN MY MOUTH! THE WORLD IS OOOOOOVER! I AM THE NINETY NINE PERCENT!” like you’re occupying my kitchen or something. You’ll get that joke when you’re older.
You love to help me wrap Christmas presents. Normally I’m super anal about gift wrap. I like it to be matchy-matchy and I fold my corners down with Martha Stewart precision. I will pass this skill on to you and you will thank me. This year I skipped over beautiful gold damask wrapping paper in favor of a roll featuring Thomas The Train. I stood in the middle of Target contemplating which character you would like the best and felt like such a mom.
Telling you “No” also makes me feel like a mom. Specifically, my mom. We tell you “No Ma’am” which is a habit Jeff has picked up from me that I picked up from my mother. You know what the word “no” means. If we tell you “No” you will stop in the middle of the floor, look at us and smile. It’s completely charming. We’re done for. Currently these conversations consist of “No Ma’am, we do not touch the doggie’s food,” “No Ma’am, we do not try to climb the Christmas tree,” and “No Ma’am, you can not eat mommy’s shoes.”
Shoes, Scarlette, are not for eating. That’s a piece of mommy wisdom you’re going to want to remember.
I love you past the moon,
Mommy
