I don’t usually do this, but I have to tell you. I love my baby.
She is rapidly leaving babyhood behind as she approaches her first birthday in June. She does everything rapidly. She crawls so quick that at least once a day, I run in a panic around my house looking for her. She could walk if she trusted herself, but she isn’t quite ready to let go of both handholds at the same time.
She’s got strawberry blonde hair and big brown eyes. Right now, with cottage cheese on her chin, she’s yelling at me for putting her on the opposite side of the baby gate than me. She eats everything: spinach, zucchini, amaranth, bananas, leaves, rubber bands. The other day, she pooped a sticker.
My baby poops happy face stickers.
Sure, she probably ate it first, but don’t ruin this for me.
Odie and I call her “Joy Baby.” She’s almost always happy. She laughs hard and loud at her big sister and tummy raspberries. Just yesterday I noticed that she doesn’t have a baby shape anymore. Her legs don’t bow out like before. She has the body of a walker. She’s going to be a little girl soon.
Monkey is another nickname. She climbs everything she encounters, continually amazing me with her balance and caution. This morning, after waking me way too early, she crawled to the end of our bed, rolled onto her tummy and slid feet first to the floor.
She says: Hi, Mum-mum (that’s me), Da-da, cat, dog, yeah, and num.
SHE CAN REACH THE CAPS LOCK KEY ON MY COMPUTER.
She claps, points to her tummy when prompted, and grins with her eight teeth. She is the best part of every day.
I love my three year-old equally and differently. She’s more complicated. Let me put it this way: Viva’s nickname is Cuckoo Bird.