Dear Isobel,
Tomorrow you turn 18 months. This is negating the fact that two weeks ago you decided to grow up and become two, much to my protest.
Life is a lot of interesting now than it was a year ago – you’re no longer confined to the snuggli during walks, allowing you to grab stuff and throw food from your stroller’s tray and point out every single dog that you see. Truth be told, I miss the days when you were cuddled into my solar plexus, keeping me warm and allowing me to not have to wear a bra and my shirt to be covered in stains. But sweet is the option of smoking during our many daily walks and being able to bend over without fearing dropping you on your head. Sitting on the bus is pretty awesome, too.
What’s been the coolest thing about this whirring of time the past 18 months has been is watching you grow into this little person. Really, this little me. You’re stubborn, independent, codependent, humorous, a book lover, a malicious glarer and most of all, you’re so effing smart.
You pick up words and tones and music so quickly, it astounds me and causes me to chastise your father for censoring his language via extra fricking usuage. Like I want you saying fricking. If you’re going to learn to curse, it’s going to be the right words and in context, for crying out loud.
Your love for Dora extends as far as a lesbian obsession can, and is only out-ruled by your assumption that I. Need. To. Be. Within. Ten. Feet. Of. You. at all times. And while I love this all encompassing leaching that you’re so good at, it’s not as welcome when you’re kicking and hitting me.
And then, there’s the sleeping. Lack of sleeping, I should clarify. Seems you’re the boss – what was I thinking? – and getting you to nap for longer than a half hour stretch hardly seems worth it nowadays. But you know, you’re getting big and you’ve got more important things to do, like rocking out to fluffy pop songs and pooping in the bathtub.
Things have changed a lot in the past year: Daddy isn’t here as much, I’m always here (I guess that didn’t change), we stopped having a kitty and drinking from bottles and breastfeeding. We also started sleeping separately and eating all kinds of awesome crap food and wearing clothes that were more cool than girlie-pink-flowered creations designed only for the palettes of southern belles and grandmothers.
And for the next year or so, I’ll make you a deal: I’ll work on deep breathing techniques and give you the benefit of the doubt more often. I will go zen and assume you’re not trying to screw me over by not sleeping or running away when your butt is covered in poop, I will even start doing yoga again and bake and be a domestically inclined mommy, if it just means that you stop being like me as much as is necessary to prevent me from a fourth heart attack before the age of 50.
As long as you can swear you’ll not being doing speedballs with slimy french photographers at 13, I promise I’ll not overdo the timeouts and stop saying, “that’s enough” so often. Or the scarily toned, “ca c’est fin.”
If you can spend more time doing this
instead of this
then I promise, I’ll spend a lot more time and effort to be this person,
more often.
Love Daddy (aka mommy).
