From Me, To You

Dear R,

This is my first letter to you. You're eleven months old right now, but still very tiny compared to all the other babies your age. I worry about this, and not just cause I don't want you to be a shorty like your mom, when you grow up. But I'm breastfeeding you--still going--and giving you lots of different kinds of very high-calorie, nutritious foods, so I think I'm doing my best by you, baby.

You've always been a very adventurous eater. Your first food was mango. Your first meat was lamb. Your first bread was a crusty sourdough--though this you mostly clutched to your chest and sucked on. You like spicy foods--curries, even. You hate plain boiled vegetables, although you will make allowances for edamame and peas.

You have your monthly obsessions. Last month it was gadgets and footwear. This month it's Edward's leash and the dishwasher. You've been nonchalantly plucking all the safety covers off the electrical sockets (damn IKEA so-called child-safety products). You've also begun inching closer to the toilet bowl, god help me. And will you never get over your need to overturn Edward's water bowl?

I've been going crazy lately with my spray bottle of white wine vinegar. Supposedly it's antibacterial, so I've been spritzing everything you may come in contact with, with it. The fumes give me a headache and make me worry if there are any risks to a baby regarding overexposure to vinegar. That sounds ridiculous, but I think it's possible to overdo anything.

Look what you've got me doing: cleaning. This is the power you have over me, baby girl. Not even your dad's endless grousing could get me going before.

You finally sprouted two teeth this month and your pink gummy smile has been altered. You don't look so baby-ish anymore, and I guess that's about right since you're almost a toddler. So now, when I Google one of my million worries about you, I sometimes have to try typing, for example, "toddler" (instead of "baby") + "thumb biting" + "horrific wounds." Yeah, your new teeth have left multiple punctures on one of your thumbs and it looks terrible. Supposedly, it's a pretty normal occurrence. You may even develop a callus, a thumb-sucking callus.

You know what? You seem to be torturing Edward less. Or he's getting smarter about running away. Thank god, I thought that poor dog was going to start developing bald spots.

Okay, this was a pretty mundane letter, wasn't it? But this is the kind of life you and I live these days and these are the thoughts that occupy my mind about you. It's funny, I thought I'd get frustrated with such things. Even your increasing clingy-ness, somehow I'm handling it okay. I even find it kind of cute how sometimes when I walk toward you, you'll come barreling over to meet me halfway, as if we've been parted for years (rather than the seconds it took for me to wash my hands for the 11,000th time that day). It's nice to be needed that much--who would've thought?

I love it when I pick you up and your whole body wriggles happily, like a puppy. Or when we've been together the entire day and yet, in the midst of your endless quest to examine every inch of our apartment, you'll still pause to catch my eye and give me a broad smile, like you're telling me, "I like being with you." Your dad and I need to be more like that with each other. We've been together so many years now, I think we forget to let each other know sometimes, simply that "I like being with you."