eleven months

That today marks the completion of your eleventh month knocking around on your own on this little planet means that one month from today will mark your completion–our completion–of one year, a year I never imagined would come full circle, closing itself out with tidy little stitches. The year is not done yet, though it’s begun to loom like a sun I’m trying to notice but can only see from under a hand over my eyes, and so the year gets filed away in this post to be picked up in a few weeks.

Today you are eleven months old. Today you are big kid oatmeal and dancing to music, you are fresh-picked flowers and a pointing finger. You are my helper–the carrier of receipts and the getter of the mail, the turner on and off of lights and closer and opener of doors. You are giggling rides in the laundry basket and piles of books read and re-read. You are a stop and go nurser, checking to make sure my bellybutton is where you last saw it before diving back in for a few more sucks. And you are funny. You’ve started playing jokes on us, planned out and self-delighting jokes. You offer a toy car to your dad and when he reaches for it you quickly pull it away, giggling. After your nap yesterday you said you didn’t want to get out, that you were still sleepy. You took a pacifier and Soft Thing and leaned straight forward (goodness you’re flexible) and closed your eyes, only to coyly smile before opening them, giggling, and repeating.

You answer questions with aplomb in spite of the fact that you haven’t learned “no” yet, nodding in affirmation or holding your head perfectly still. You hand us remotes–to the television or computer–and then point at the thing you’d like on. You only watch little bits of tv (Sesame Street mostly) and we often don’t honor your request for it to be turned on, but when you hand us the remote to the computer it means you want music on and that’s a request that is always seen to fruition. If you’re standing up you start bobbing on your little legs and shaking your head around; if you’re seated you start wiggling away instantly. You blow kisses and give kisses now, to everyone and everything. You are quick crawling and standing at every possible second. Oh–and you’ve decided you hate baths.

I asked you last night if you are still my baby. You stared at me for a long, cool second before giving one, firm nod. Thanks for that little affirmation, Squid. The baby days are falling away–a most brilliant and hoped for loss.