This baby's going to be One on Saturday. A one-year-old in this big world.
You know when you're at the opera, and the lady sings loud and high? And then higher, and higher, until she hits a note so high you think the windows might burst. You love it, but you also want it to stop. It fills your senses, thrills you and shocks you.
Well Tada squeals like this but I don't love it, I just want it to stop. During meals is the worst. She'll scream a few times and then I'll watch Jake get up, make a bottle of chocolate milk, and bring it to her in her high chair. "It's the only way" he says in a tight voice.
She crawls around the house like a shrieking little mammal. Unaware, can't speak english, can't walk more than two steps, uses a diaper, can't dress herself, still sucks her toes, gets into everything. I wonder what will change by the time she's two. She'll most likely be a walking, shrieking mammal that gets into everything.
When Jake gets home from work, she crawls in hyper speed, taking the shortest path through the toys to his feet, and demands to be held. He cannot resist Tada, most people can't. If you do, she makes you pay.
Last night around 11 she woke up. I held her for a long time. I tried to lay her down again in her crib. She cried. I sat back down and rocked her more. The weight of a baby distributed from my chest to my waist is a very familiar feeling. Fuzzy pajamas, restless legs, the sound of her heavy breathing. My fingers traced the roundness of her forehead, her hair, her eyes, her lips and nose. My hand rested between her miniature hipbone and the start of her ribcage. I sighed. And loved.
I hope you are enjoying things so far, Tada. We adore you.