A Year And A Month

Xander,

Today you turn 13 months old. You’re officially into your second year. I know I sound like "such a mom" when I say it, but I seriously just can’t believe how quickly it’s gone (but, of course, you’ve ALWAYS lived with us, haven’t you?).

Last night your dad and I sat together and laughed for a good five minutes over just how much you’re already a little boy. You’re nonstop motion, a blur of dark curls and dimpled elbows, smiling beneath your pacifier. You’re changing by the minute. You’re crawling and climbing and standing and walking along the edges of anything, really. The other day I caught you hanging by the knobs of a cabinet, giggling as you lifted your feet of the floor and dangled. You talk. You love to talk. You sound a bit like a Russian robot, sure, but I know you have stories to tell us. Your eyes light up and you gesticulate wildly as you exclaim "bleee bloop stchluey cloaflo na bo bo bo!"

You are a Pet Person, no doubt about it. You break into hysterical laughter at the sight of Tonks. You want so badly to "pet" her, but she has learned that your pets are more of a fur removal process than strokes of love, so she mostly runs away from you. Unless you’re eating, in which case she is right under your chair. And you are always (ALWAYS) eating. You are an adventurous eater, so far: quinoa with shredded squash, tofu, broccoli puffs, turkey-meatballs, polenta, veggie pancakes. Your favorite seems to be French Toast, which I try to make in batches and have on hand. You are not so sure about pasta, though, leaving me to wonder if we’re related after all.

So much fun stuff awaits you in this second year of being alive. You’ll be walking and talking and running and discovering and oh, what joy.

I am so looking forward to what’s to come, but I also want to remember last year, your first year. I want to remember so much, the details that feel so unique to you, but are treasured by mothers the world over. I want to remember the powdery smell of your head. The way we’d fall asleep together, while you nursed – you’re starfish hands curled up against my skin. The first time you smiled at me, because you knew it was me. The way your legs would dance when I held you out to be held by your dad. The excited and impatient screech you’d give when it was time to eat. Your bewildered expression the first time you rolled over. Your dimpled fingers clutching your favorite blankie close to your face. The sound of you giggling in bed with Dad after I’d drop you there in the mornings while I made coffee and took a moment to wake up. The first time you intentionally signed "more" at me (for more food, of course). The way your dad and I would shape your hair into a Mohawk in the bathtub. The squeak of your pacifier going up and down in your mouth. The warmth of your breath against my chest as you slept against me. Your delighted surprise at discovering your feet.

Nothing else in the past year can compare to all these memories you’ve given me. They’re seared in my mind, tattooed in my heart. Every day you give me something new to treasure, even when I’m sure I’m so full already that I can’t possibly hold any more. My heart just grows to make more room. And more and more and more.

I love you, little boy.