Thirteen months old (yesterday)

Bumblelamb,

Yesterday you became thirteen months old. I know you can’t count quite yet, but when you get older and look back over these posts you’ll realize we’ve encountered a problem. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, thirteen. That’s right. I’ve dutifully been writing these love letters to you monthly--every thirty some-odd days since you arrived on the scene--only last month for the big ONE, I didn’t do it. I could blame it on the move, on crazy schedules and busy times; saying goodbye to friends, on packing and preparations, but if I’m being honest with myself and you, it’s because I’m having a bit of a hard time coming to grips with you growing up.

You’re not yet walking (although you’re sooooo close), but to me, I think you’re already a toddler rather than a baby. Every time I say this your father responds with, “No! She’s still a baby!” I think you always will be to him, just fyi. You’re still making leaps and bounds with your motor skills—gross and fine, you’re babbling to anyone who will listen or sometimes to no one at all, you are quite the problem solver and have a great sense of humor. Your father or I will call out excitedly, “Did you see that??” when you do something amazing, like stand on your own and balance unassisted for half a minute or so. But there’s some X factor that’s taking place, Lamby, and you’re metamorphosing in front of my very eyes.

You’re down to two nursings a day now, and I think you’re about to go down to one, as we’ll probably eliminate the morning session any time now. You’re trying new foods and sampling off of our plates as well. I can’t wait to get back to the states to see what new things we can experiment with. You’ve been resisting your morning nap in favor of a single afternoon nap as well. You love to play on the floor with your daddy or “run away” down the hall and have us chase after you. You’re very graceful, but when you fall, you fall spectacularly. In all honesty, it scares the bejeebies out of me every time it happens. You face plant after a false step and go from all smiles to wails of pain and fear. Before I can even assess the state of your busted lip you’re squirming out of my lap, eager to go knock yourself silly again.

It’s really clear now that you can understand a good deal of what I’m saying—if not word for word, than certainly the intent or tone comes through. You respond to simple commands or questions with an inquisitive look, smile, or pout. You have a “new face” that is something akin to a wide eyed, teeth bared (you have four now, btw—teeth, that is) grimace that is used when you are surprised, taken aback by something, or are unsure. Chokydar brings about this look a lot. I’ve got to get a picture of it, because it is totally priceless. You can sometimes handle “no” without much ado, but other times it can send you into a complete fit, stomping feet and all.

You’re liberal with your kisses, and are, on occasion, a biter. You like playing with my yarn. You love “reading.” You prefer the letters “O,” “Q,” and “B,” and “D.” You rock out to hip hop, oldies, and Motown. You point your toes like a ballet dancer and like to brush your teeth with Baby Orajel.

This time next month, we’ll be in America. There are so many things I want to show you, I don’t even know where to start. I know that you won’t remember your time here in Germany, but it has been a happy time, for the most part, and you have been such a source of joy for us in this past year.

I love you. I can’t say it enough.

Love,

Mommy