Dear M,

You turned seventeen months old yesterday. At this time last year you had just cut your second tooth (we’re now on number 16), were learning how to roll over, and had a whole lot less hair.

What a difference a year can make, my dear.

This has been a month of many changes, the most important of which is that you started sleeping through the night. It’s only about half the time, so there is still a Russian roulette quality to our nights, but it is a significant improvement, and I find myself better rested, and therefore a much better parent most days. I never would have guessed that sleep would still be so damn hard at this age, nor did I fathom the enormity of the impact it would have on the quality of my life. The constant exhaustion I feel is one of the greatest challenges I have faced on this journey we’re taking together, you and me. So it is with great relief that I welcome these glimpses of the light at the end of the tunnel. I just sincerely hope that it’s not an oncoming train.

We have faced our share of nursing difficulties, and for many months you have insisted on treating my breasts as if they had built-in sippy cup handles, in addition to pulling relentlessly on my nipple and constantly switching sides. We had a few nights of rough sleep last week, and my exhaustion and frustration made this behavior unbearable (especially every four hours in the middle of the night). The next day I started pinning your bottom hand (the worst offender by far) behind my back. When you pulled it free in order to crush my breast in your little hand, I asked you to put your hand on my back. By the end of that nursing session, you were reformed (although you still need frequent reminders). I cannot believe the change this has wrought in our nursing relationship. I am so much more comfortable and able to relax, which means my letdown comes much quicker. You are less frustrated, and switch sides far less often. I only wish I had thought to ask this of you sooner.

You still have little interest in talking, having added only two words to your repertoire in the last month, bringing it to a grand total of: three. You have an intense fascination with bubbles, be they blown from a wand or lathered off a bar of soap, and so it is that you start chanting “buh-ow” as soon as we get in the tub every night. In addition to the old standby “uh-oh” (“uh ho”), you have also added “alright” (“aw-why”), which is something I say a lot, apparently.

You like to make noises, though, and happily meow, bark, quack, cheep, roar, and occasionally make a mangled attempt at cock-a-doodle-doo. You also say “boom” when you plow one toy into another, and “eeeeee” (your version of “wheeee”) when you go down the slide. You pointed to our neighbor’s truck tonight and said “brmmm brmmm”. When your father brings you to me so you can nurse just before bed, I tell you to say “goodnight papa”, and you say “bah bah bah bay”. At least it has four syllables.

But if I’m going to be really honest, I have to say I’m a little frustrated at your refusal to talk or use signs. You don’t say mama or papa. You know the “milk” sign, yet prefer to scream and plow your head into my chest when you want to nurse. You know the “eat” and “drink” signs, but prefer to whine morosely while I try to discern if you’re tired or hungry. You will imitate a word once (you said “sandwich” clear as day yesterday), but refuse to use it again, no matter how much we encourage you. So why won’t you tell me what’s on your mind, little girl? I’ve spent a lot of this parenting journey feeling like I’m wandering around in the dark, and I sometimes think you’ve been sent to teach me to be okay with that very feeling. Apparently, your lessons haven’t stuck yet, although it certainly hasn’t been for your lack of trying.

But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that you love your bath. Every night after dinner the two of us climb in together and slosh around, playing with bubbles, stacking cups and whatever else we pull in with us. Sadly, your father and I rarely have our act together enough to allow for a leisurely, wrinkle-inducing bath, and our time in that watery heaven often ends far too soon for your tastes. As soon as your father steps into the room to remove you, you twist yourself sideways away from him, ear nearly touching the surface of the water, as if to say, “oh, nothing going on here, no worries, carry on!” When that doesn’t work, you scramble up onto me and start nursing, somehow having figured out that this is a sacred act that is interrupted by no one. I know all too well what you’re up to, but find it so hilarious that I’m powerless to do anything but laugh, my belly bouncing you gently, as you peer suspiciously at your father out of the corner of your eye. You don’t have the patience to stick with it, though, and unlatch after a few seconds, whereupon he lifts you, protesting loudly, out of the tub. All is well within a few moments, as he swaddles you in a towel and scoops you into his arms, proclaiming at the top of his lungs that you’re his bean burrito.

I unwittingly used this to my advantage the other night, though, when I was certain that your father’s dream of you pooping in the tub was finally coming to fruition. You were bearing down with a look of concentration on your face (having already ripped two substantial farts), so I started frantically calling for him. I don’t know what I thought he could do to help, but my whirling mind had an image of him scooping the poop out of the tub as it emerged, and somehow, this seemed like the correct course of action. When I called him the second time, the panic in my voice must have broken through your concentration, because the look on your face changed in a flash. You clambered to your feet, trying desperately to climb over the toys and cups that bobbed between us, single-minded in your pursuit of my nipple. It wasn’t until you were safely latched on that I realized you thought I was calling him to take you from the tub. This threat clearly erased all thoughts of pooping from your mind. Crisis averted.

I faced your first major medical scare this month, when you stumbled and hit your lip on the rocking chair as you went down. As I comforted you, the intensity of your screams quickly made it obvious that this was not your everyday boo-boo. After a few moments I took a look and saw that your upper tooth had pushed almost all the way through your bottom lip. I felt my heart fall with a thud as I wondered what in the world to do. I held you close and took some deep breaths, willing myself to calm down and think clearly. I looked again and saw that there was minimal bleeding, and although your lip was starting to swell, I decided the injury was probably best left alone. I desperately hoped I was making the right decision. You calmed down fairly quickly, and I let you suck on an ice cube for a while, which went fine until you had a screaming fit because I wouldn’t let you hold it with your bare hands (although if I had to do it again, I would let you, since experience is the best teacher). After that I was fairly certain you were okay. And you were.

For our own convenience, we’ve done a fairly thorough job of baby-proofing the house. I got tired of wading through mounds of Tupperware and having to hand wash whatever I needed, so all of the kitchen cabinets were locked. The computer and accessories were put out of reach (although you’ve grown so much this won’t last for long), and the library desk and bookcases were locked as well. The stereo and CDs are barricaded with chairs pending the completion of our “copy-CDs-to-computer” and “hook-computer-up-to-the-relocated-to-a-high-shelf-stereo” project. But I balked at the idea of drilling childproof latches into our gorgeous, mission-style china cabinet. Obviously, allowing you access to our very breakable china and serving dishes is not a smart idea, but it takes some strength to overcome the built-in latches on the doors, so we decided to take a wait-and-see approach. The china cabinet is tucked into a corner of the living room, out of view from most of the rest of the house. From time to time the tink of the metal pulls (semi-circles hanging over metal plates) would tell me you were messing with it, but the doors and drawers were never opened, so I let you be. The other day I was walking past and had a clear view of you as you stood in front of the cabinet, so I waited quietly and managed to escape your notice. You went to every door and drawer, one by one, pushing the pulls into an upright position. Then you went back to every one, and pushed them in a downward position. Then up, then down, stepping back frequently to admire your handiwork. Once you accidentally opened a door, and looking surprised, you quickly shut it, as it interfered with your master door-pull reorganization plan. I chuckled quietly to myself and decided that for now at least, the china was safe.

You are still a hearty eater, willing to try anything and everything. It is no longer possible to eat in front of you unless we plan on sharing. This has forced your father to take his cracker addiction underground. (Did you know there was such a thing as a cracker snob? Who puts butter on his crackers? Well, there is.) I had chicken pad thai for lunch the other day, and you sat on my lap happily plunging both fists into my meal, shoveling noodles, chicken, bean sprouts, egg and green onion into your mouth as fast as you could. I’ve been losing weight lately, and I think it’s because I only get to eat about half of my food these days.

You still love your books, especially ones with real pictures in them. You stab your finger at things, saying “dah? dah? dah?” until I identify them. Your memory amazes me, as you can easily point out items after being told their name only once or twice.

Your father and I have been locked in a front door floor-mat battle for many months (he wants one, I don’t – it’s just something else that has to be picked up and cleaned), and he finally bought one last night and put it down. You walked by it this morning, then stopped in your tracks and retraced your steps. After inspecting it for a while, you leaned down and kissed it, repeatedly. I imagine you think this is an appropriate welcome for any soft, fuzzy thing that appears in our home. I was just glad that no one had wiped their feet on it yet.

We gave you a doll and doll-sized sling for Christmas. Your love for the doll was instant and powerful – she is the only item that is not ejected from your crib during naptime. The sling, on the other hand, kind of freaked you out. You absolutely refused to wear it, even though it sometimes seems like you’ve spent the better part of your life in a sling; even after we both demonstrated using your sling and the doll. No, no, absolutely NOT. You are nothing if not strong-willed, and things must be done on your terms. Today you finally decided the sling was acceptable, bringing it to me so I could help you into it, and nestle first a teddy bear, and then your doll into the embrace of its fabric. It was even cuter than I had imagined.

Speaking of Christmas, about halfway through opening gifts at my parents (and there were a lot of gifts, as that’s my mother’s style), you finally “got” it … understanding that there was STUFF under that wrapping paper, and it was for YOU. It was funny watching this transformation, as it became clear that removing the paper was no longer about just ripping paper. It was about getting to the “stuff”. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have mixed feelings about this.

You continue to be independent and opinionated. This has only recently started to become an issue, and you have actually thrown a few lame mild temper tantrums, lying on the floor and whining (no kicking or flailing of arms … yet). You don’t like being told no, and don’t take kindly to being redirected. I grew up in a household where my feelings and opinions held little sway, so I am committed to my efforts to give you as much autonomy as possible, and I am extremely uncomfortable with the idea that you might think I am forcing you to bend to my will for no good reason. But when you’re running roughshod over a shy three year old at the library, not even allowing him to get close to the train table, I have to admit I’m at a bit of a loss. You are so far from understanding concepts like sharing, yet he has just as much right as you do to play. How do I get you to hand over half the train, share half the track, without it seeming like an arbitrary mandate on my part? This philosophical conundrum has been rattling about in my brain the past few days, with no apparent progress. I don’t expect that it’s going to get any easier, either.

Going hand in hand with your independence is your anti-cuddle nature. You are not a snuggly, cuddly, compliant baby. It is only in the last few weeks that you have relented and started leaning into me in your own strange way after nursing at night – you kneel facing me, lean your body against mine, and rest your head on my chest, for a minute or two, tops. But your kisses … you give kisses with abandon, and I am always shocked by the intense warmth of your lips, as if your skin can just barely contain the life-force that pounds beneath it. You shower me with warm, milky kisses when you’re nursing; you appear at my side when I least expect it, face upturned, lips pursed, waiting; you bestow them on your father, the cat, your doll … the floormat. You even give the occasional hug, coming up behind me as I sit on the floor, and throwing your arms around my neck. You will never be one of those babies who nurses contentedly at the breast for an hour, who snuggles into her mother’s arms and drifts off to sleep, who cuddles into her shoulder when out and about. Sometimes I feel sad about this, but then you bless me with one of your kisses, and I remember to be thankful that you’re just the way you are … and tell you that I love you.

Love,
Mama