Dear R,

You were in the weirdest mood today. I kept feeling your forehead because I was sure you were sick. Maybe it was the stupid drilling going on next door that disturbed your nap. Or the fact that you didn't eat much for lunch, and maybe were hungry. Or the sad gray sky, chilly air, and nonstop rain that was totally getting *me* down, for sure. Anyhow, you wanted nothing but for me to walk around the living room holding you in my arms, while demanding to hear the Black Eyed Peas's "I Gotta Feeling" over and over and over. And over. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet downloaded the Youtube Auto Replay add-on--didn't even know it existed until a second ago. The first time the song ended, I made the mistake of trying to go on to another song, turned around, and was shocked to see your face crumpling. I quickly went back to "I Gotta Feeling," you clapped your hands in approval, but then your bottom lip actually started quivering when the last line of the song played. God.

Anyhow, when my arms were about to give out, I caved and asked you if you wanted blueberries ("bu bu," you call them). The reason I never ask is because, when it comes to blueberries, there is no such thing as enough. Watching you eat blueberries is to see the development of addiction unfold. It's also a major pain in the ass to clean up after, since it gets all over your hands, which you make sure to wipe on as many surfaces as possible. But, yes, the blueberries did the trick, and then I lured you away from the berries with uncooked dried soba (another favorite of yours), cucumber, and roast chicken.

Despite the ominous start to our afternoon, things eventually got quite merry. We sat together on the kitchen floor, using your little stool as a dining table. We slurped (cooked) soba together. I butchered bits and pieces of Benjamin Britten scarcely recalled from my college choir days. We even did numerous rounds of kampai ("cheers" in Japanese), and maybe this is only funny to me but you pronounced it very clearly as "pad thai." Did I mention you ate cucumber?

About half a year ago, you went from gobbling down everything to systematically cutting everything vegetable out of your diet. But in the past week, you've voluntarily eaten cucumber, broccoli, and green beans. For some reason, spinach, lettuce, and asparagus are still not acceptable. But who cares about those?! Until now, I'd been this close to convincing myself edamame had some sort of veg affinity because of its color. Thank god those days of self-delusion can perhaps draw to a close.

Dear R,

This week was...hellish. You--that's right, you--put your mom through the ringer. It started with the sudden earlier-morning wakings. Went from a decent-ish 7:30am to a totally unacceptable 5am, Miss. I'm dreading what time you're going to be crying out for me tomorrow, which is why I REALLY should be in bed by now.

Although I love hot weather, 36'F doesn't make struggling with an unhappy toddler comfortable. I tried to leave the house with you about six times this morning, and was pretty drenched with sweat by the time we actually stepped out the front door. Lovely way to start an outing.

I have to confess: I all-out bellowed at you yesterday and I think I've managed to horrify the neighbors. It had been a very, very long day, sweetheart, and you really did everything possible to drive me insane. I held out until the very end, just before bedtime, when you were trying to shriek the house down and then attempted to tear the curtains off the railings. That was, for some reason, the last straw for me and I really shouted quite loudly at you. Can I just say that you were not impressed or intimidated in the least? But this morning when we bumped into the lady next door, she gave me a decidedly nervous half-glance. Or maybe I just looked as crazed as I felt, after all I'd gone through to get you out of the house.

But then late this afternoon, it was like the sun breaking through a thick grey sky and you suddenly lightened up, after days of tiny fury. And then you opened your mouth really big in my direction--kinda like you did the day before when you repeatedly tried to bite a hole in my face, zombie style, while I held you helplessly in my arms and tried to walk home--and started pointing at your gum, which upon close inspection turned out to be quite red and shredded-looking. Ah. Teething.

Teething. Even the most clueless new parent is prepared for certain things, but for some reason, nobody mentions how insane a child can become when teething. I guess it is different for each person. Some lucky bastards have kids who chortle through all twenty coming through, I suppose. Not me. Not you.

The first time I experienced teething was when you were six months old. You stopped being happy for an entire month. That was hard.

Truly, every time you are inexplicably mean or miserable, it is always teething. Sometimes I think I loathe those adorable little pearly chiclets--the source of all our woeful times. And you still have a ways to go. Argh, why does a person need so many teeth.

But on a lighter note, once you started returning to your normal self, you soon had me laughing again. You have a new thing that you do: Whenever you spot something small and brown, you scream, "Ew, a bwa" (translation: Ew, a bug). I'm pretty sure you're imitating me. But it is a poor imitation. The way you screech and whinny--I'm not that hysterical when I see an insect. I'm not.

You also are something of a physical comedian. When you're being silly, sometimes you'll pause, stare off into space for just the right amount of time, and then whip your head around to give me a naughty look--I wish I could capture it on the video camera.

You are becoming increasingly sweet and caring with your favorite stuffed animal--Mr. Doggy--as well, asking me to give him hugs and kisses, to massage his paws, and today offering him your lunch. Well, you love Mr. Towel, too, but it's hard to massage a towel and brush its teeth. Also, I don't think Mr. Towel likes eggs.

I hope you feel better tomorrow, R, mostly for my own sake. What a mean mom I am, huh? I'm really sorry I shouted at you yesterday. I doubt it will be the last time, though. You still have something like nine more teeth to go. Ugh.

Dear R,

We just got back from vacation spent with your grandparents, uncles, and potential aunt (I *think* an engagement was mentioned). Some parts were nice: visiting the places of my childhood, being surrounded by snow-covered mountains and towering pines. But, mostly, it was exhausting. You refused to sleep during the flight there and back. You viewed my family as strangers and clung pitifully to me the entire two weeks (I have newly bulging biceps to show for it--scared the heck out of me when I spotted them showing off while I was brushing my hair in front of the mirror). We had to share a room, which was sheer hell for me; you made sure to wake us often throughout the night.

But we're back now, thank god, and mom is slowly recuperating. And you're returning to your usual cheery self. You've been getting more independent-minded, these past few days. You want what you what "and don't even bother trying to distract me with that stupid ladle." Suddenly, you want to wear shoes--mine and dad's. You have two push-and-walk toys but you stubbornly return again and again to your own stroller, which isn't one of those little umbrella fold-up types, by the way; you've even figured out how to release the break, when mom sneakily tries to thwart your efforts. And you want to feed yourself, god help me--but NO HIGH CHAIR. You leave food trails on the kitchen floor like some omnivorous snail. I'm considering putting you into the bathtub naked and letting you do as you please with your dinner; right now, that consists of you violently stabbing your fork and spoon into the bowl and sending food flying everywhere. You then attack the food with your hands and like to finish off with using mom as a giant serviette. I think I need a bib more than you do.

You still hate your infant car seat. Which reminds me to record this: Your eyebrows turn bright red when you've had a long bout of rage-induced crying. It's really...cute and funny. Which I guess makes me a bad mom for giggling a bit when viewing her baby's tear-stained face. I realized last night that I'd become a true mom when I found myself driving home, singing cheerfully along with the radio, and really not bothered in the least by the fact that you were shrieking in the back at full volume, wailing as if your tender baby heart were being torn from your chest.

But I must say that you're actually not a big cryer. These days, say you topple over and hit your poor head, you'll right yourself and just rub the injured spot with a puzzled frown on your face (I guess because I usually do that for you, but does it really make the pain better?). It's endearing.

I love how your personality is showing itself more and more. You like smells and have a nose like a hound dog. The minute I break into the skin of a mandarin orange, your head pops up in eager anticipation. You love cinnamon and could happily sniff a bottle of it the whole day. And I can't even get a spoon of yogurt close to your face before you start shaking your head in refusal. Sometimes, I find myself smiling even when you're turning your head away from a particular food, because I love that you have actual opinions on such matters and that you're already standing up for your beliefs. Before, you were like a little animal, utterly helpless; but you're steadily growing into your own person. It's amazing.

Loves/Hates

Dear R,

You're 11 months old and you have strong opinions about everything.

Right now, you love:
-being held by your dad
-food
-your stupid 100% polyester lovey, which was originally a cheap wash cloth that someone gave us and that I tried to replace with several organic lookalikes, which have all repeatedly been tossed aside
-opening and closing doors
-turning pages of books and magazines (but not actually looking at the pages or being read to)

You hate:
-being strapped down (i.e., carseat, stroller, high chair, supermarket cart, my Beco Butterfly carrier--so are we ever going to be able to go anywhere ever again? And do I have to let you eat while moving about freely, dragging fistfuls of food across the floor, leaving a slimy trail behind you like a snail?)
-lying on your back
-socks, shoes, and hats--actually anything even remotely near your head (your latest enemy is the sun shade attached to the carseat)
-getting ready for bed (but weirdly, you're okay with the actual going-to-bed part)

Recently, you were scared by:
-a helium balloon
-water spraying against the shower curtain
-being at Gymboree (I think I'm going to cancel our membership)
-three huge nurses surrounding you to collect a urine sample with a catheter because you had a fever for three days without any other symptoms and the doctor wanted to make sure it wasn't a UTI (turned out to be roseola). And I totally don't blame you for freaking out during this whole ordeal; poor baby, mom was having a very hard time keeping it together herself.

Your First Birthday

Dear R,

Your first birthday is coming up this month. I hate to admit this, but I thought about planning a party for you just because everyone else was doing it for their baby. Yep, I almost caved in to mommy-group pressure. But I didn't need to think about it too long. I'd barely begun agonizing over matching balloon and cupcake frosting colors, when I realized I couldn't do that to you. You would hate a birthday party, especially your own. Heck, while the other babies at Gymboree are either throwing themselves into each new activity or just hanging out with mom on the mats, you're the one repeatedly making her way to my shoes at the entrance, like, "Let's get the heck out of here, already."

Everyone says you're the picture of your dad, but at heart, you're more like me. You don't like too many people all at once. You're not so good with new places. And you're more often an observer, rarely a participant. So I can pretty much anticipate your reaction to a room full of noisy people with lots of attention thrown your way.

They say the first birthday celebration is usually for the parents, but I'd rather the day be for you. So we'll probably keep it low-key, just our little family: you, me, and dad. Maybe we can go to the zoo and actually see all those animals you've been avidly examining in your board books. You can still have a birthday cake, though. Let me take another stab at my whole-wheat, sugarless banana-almond cake recipe. Which may not sound very good to the you reading this now, but trust me on this: Baby R digs mom's cake.

It keeps bowling me over, the tide of feeling that accompanies my thoughts of this upcoming milestone. I actually get teary, and I'm about the least sentimental person I know (your dad gets not-so-secretly miffed every time I forget our wedding anniversary). At first I chalked it up to me being hormonal, or something, but after talking with other people, I've learned that baby's first birthday is incredibly emotional and bittersweet for most parents. I don't feel sad that you're growing up, though--that isn't it. I don't quite know yet what I'm feeling.

I thought it would be nice to take a few pictures, though--an informal family portrait. We have possibly zero photos of the three of us together. So someone else would have to take the pictures. But I don't want one of those studio ones, with the weird cloudy background, matching snowflake sweaters, and poses that make you think of high school yearbooks.

I came across the Blue Lily blog by a husband and wife photographer team and was amazed by some of their pictures:



I like how natural and at ease everyone is. No one looks posed and there aren't any stiff studio smiles.

I wish we could have a gorgeous family picture like that, in memory of your first year...but most likely, we'll be in a public place, and we'll ask some passerby, "Excuse me, would you mind taking our picture?" And your dad will be smiling, you'll probably look serious because there are strangers everywhere, and I'll have that perpetually irritated look I always seem to have in photos. But we'll all be there, and one of us will be holding you close, and that's really all that matters, right?

Do New Stuff

Dear R,

There have been several exciting developments in your life lately.

The first is that you now have a top front tooth to accompany your two bottom teeth--all the better to bite you with, my pretty. That's right, clueless mom had to be nipped in the nipple about eight times before the light bulb came on. You're still accidentally biting me here and there, and frankly, it's painful and terrifying, now that there are sharp edges closing in on mom's tender flesh from two sides. Thankfully, you're not doing it on purpose...yet.

The other milestone is that you *definitely* spoke today. I mean, you've been saying things that sound like words for a long time, but admittedly, it all kind of sounds the same and sometimes it's hard to tell whether you really know what you're saying--like how you say "mama" when you're hungry or tired. But today, you extended a credit card in my direction, so I took it, then gave it back to you, saying, "Dozo." You then held the card out to me again and, with your little bird mouth pursed, cried, "Duzu!" We passed the card between us many times, and every time you gave the card back to me, you would say "dozo," or "duzu," rather. Maybe it's because I'm your mom, but I thought this was so cute. I wanted to share the moment with your grandparents in Japan--they would have been thrilled--so I tried to film you doing this, but you promptly tossed the card aside and lunged for the camera. I guess this is something that will be recorded only in my memory. And on this blog.

One other thing is you've started giving me goodnight kisses. Oh, sure, sometimes you just want to gnaw on mom's face with your brand-new, razor-sharp teeth. But last night and tonight, after our last nursing session before bed, you stood in my lap, put your hands on my shoulders, and repeatedly pressed your mouth to my face, very gently. You then kind of nuzzled my cheek and rested quietly against me, which was a surprise. You've never been the cuddly type. In fact, you haven't fallen asleep in my arms since you were a newborn, always preferring to be set down in your crib when you're getting ready to sleep. It was particularly sweet, considering in contrast the many harrowing bedtimes we've gone through before this.

I love you, little bird.

The Truth About Mom

Dear R,

Your dad's away on a business trip right now, I just ate an egg sandwich for dinner, there are books and blocks strewn all over the floor...and I'm in heaven. I don't know how I'll be as you get a bit older and I have to start setting a good example, but for now, your mom is a genuine slob.

It distresses your father to come home to a messy house, so, after you're in your crib for the night, I usually try to undo the wreckage throughout the apartment dealt by your wee hands. You seem to have an affinity for chaos (which your dad has somehow decided is all my fault): Your first task of the morning is always to head straight for the coffee table and drag out all the magazines (which your dad has been begging me to throw out--but who am I to remove the bedraggled pile of parenting magazines that bring you such obvious delight?). When set on the floor before a jumbled heap of laundry on your right and a stack of folded clothes on your left, you'll invariably head left. And if anything is sitting on a low shelf, you cannot rest until every last object is whacked to the ground.

But here I am, sitting in our exploded living room, blissfully choosing *not* to clear up. Ahhh. Of course, before dad comes home, there will be some seriously frantic housecleaning done by me. But not today.

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."