sh’bellabella

September 12, 2010

You are a character.  Funny, demanding, loving, smart little character.  You don’t use many signs now, and I guess we don’t either, since you pretty much TALK.  I mean, you do talk, and we pretty much understand what you’re saying.  At least 13% of the time.

“Sh’bella-bella bike?” you ask, pointing.

Yes, she rode by on a bike.

“Bella bella beach!”

Yes, we’re going to the beach.

And so on.  You pretty much say anything, and these days are very exciting as the words become clearer and the communication easier.

You spent the last month experimenting with all the sounds, at least the ones you can handle — the hard consonants and a few of the double consonants.  “Shush” to Matthew with your finger over your lips at story time, and “cheeees” to dada in the kitchen.  Dada, who is sometimes dada and sometimes gaga and often times mama, is the one you go to when you’re hungry, and I am the one you go to when you want to nurse, which you say with a word now, a gentle quiet word that is similar to “shoes,” you never yell it at me.  Though if I don’t respond, you will kick and pull my hair, or just work at my shirt your damn self.

17 months.

You will do it yourself, thank you very much.  You will climb the chair by yourself (and fall off) and you will get into the stroller by yourself (only asking for help when you get stuck) and you only wish you could dress yourself by yourself.  You push the sock towards your foot but it just doesn’t go on.  But you sometimes do show up in the room with your shoes on and your dad and I will look at each other just to make sure, yes indeed, you did it yourself.

Shoes.  You still love them.  Boots (you do know the difference) are your favorite, at least you can get them on easier.  “Boots,” you say at the neighbor’s, slipping them on and walking around (though they reach your midthigh).  And gloves too, you love very much.  Batting gloves, winter gloves, baseball mitts.  Any uniform or device that is worn on the body, must go on yours.

Bracelets.  Silly bandz (the latest trend with your brothers and their friends — silicone rubber bands, which are formed in different shapes, they cost a fortune and are lost quicker than they’re traded).  Hats. Necklaces. You love to dress up.

You put my hair ties on your arms and legs and wear them all day long.

When I was pregnant with you, I had only one dream of you that I remember.  You were about 3-years-old with long golden brown big curls.  We were in the water in a big swimming hole at a river.  I thought it was a lake, but it must have been a river, with the way that the water flowed by little islands for the kids to play on.  You could swim, and you came splashing to me.  I was shocked at how little I knew you, jealous of your dad for how well he knew your every move, expression… How well you two communicated without words.

I woke up assuming that we had split up in the dream — your dad and I.

But these days, I wonder if it was merely a premonition of what it’s like to be the sole working parent.  Lately I’ve been consumed by work, sometimes working 45-hour weeks.  I’m always tired in the evenings, lately even more so.  Just following through the motions until bedtime.  I promise you that it’s temporary (I so hope so), and I promise that I don’t mean to be distant (I don’t mean to be).  I promise you that I love you more than the moon and the stars, and if I send you away from my office too much, it’s not without a bit of a break to my own heart.

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