Paloma,

Today you are twenty nine months old.



There's an entire process that goes on in the early part of a baby's life, where they slowly realize that they are in fact their own person, and not an extension of their mother. I have seen you wean from me more and more over the last year, but sometimes you have moments when you forget, like this morning.

This morning you yelled at Jacques to, GET OFF MY LAP.

Ahem? That would be my lap, thank you.

I don't think you were being possessive - but it's a possibility - I think you simply forgot for a moment that we are two separate people.

I have similar moments when I hold you nowadays and I forget that you're so big and you won't be held for more than a few minutes and you'll want to get down. Remember when you wouldn't ever get down? I do.

I held you all that time, your tiny body fit right into mine. Now you don't fit so well. Your head doesn't quite tuck under my chin like it did, and your legs are so long they knock into mine as I walk.

I suppose this is called growing up. And I suppose this has been swimming in my subconscious because I know how suddenly huge you'll look the moment your sister is born. You'll smell like a kid and talk and crack jokes and run and eat in my bed and suddenly your petite frame will look ginormous next to an infant. Suddenly you won't seem like my baby at all, in the baby-sense, and you'll be this kid that knows things.

And you'll have moments, yes, when you'll melt onto the floor in a giant puddle of baby, and I'll scoop you up and hold you while you pull it all back together.



The other night I sang you to sleep. After two songs of your choosing you asked for a song that only your papa knows and then another that only he knows, and so I offered up the only other two songs I could think of: the ones I sang to you when you were so, so tiny. I haven't sung them to you since you were so tiny.

I hadn't seen you all day, all week, or all last week, really, and so you were a bundle of energy, so excited to be in a warm bed with your mama, your hands in my hair, you could hardly lie down and stay that way. But by the end of the second song you were out.

And I can't help but wonder if you remember being so tiny in my arms, hearing those words sung as best I can.



Happy Twenty Ninth Monthday.

Love,
Mama