So, this cute little bald chick I know turned one this weekend.
As I am a melodramatic and emotional fool, I expected to get a little choked up at 6pm on Sunday, because that would mark a grand 365 days since this whole adorable dog & pony show emerged from the ol’ brewster, but what actually happened was that I was busy preparing dinner at 6pm on Sunday and didn’t realize the moment had passed until 6:19. Not to worry! I made up for it by weeping (happily!) in grand fashion every other damn moment of the weekend.
When I wasn’t behind one of two cameras or facilitating my daughter’s hesitant face plant into a hydrogenated wonderland of sugary frosting.
I’ve been trying (and failing) to wrap my mind around where the past year with you has gone. It started out uneventful enough, just hanging out in a labor & delivery suite, sipping on 7up and watching The Mummy, as you do.
I took some random self-portraits because, damn, waiting for this Pitocin to kick in is boring, yo!
I made sure to mock the extreme pain that showed up precisely 20 minutes after this photo was taken:
And then – whoa – there was like, this little person there all of a sudden.
And I looked at my husband, and he was suddenly a father.
And I was suddenly someone’s strangely bloated and hormonally-enhanced mother.
You’ll notice my repetition of the word “suddenly.” That’s because it was the overriding theme of the past year, as you suddenly became one month old…
…and then two months old…
…and then THREE months old (and oh my goodness, I cannot get over how tiny you look in your high chair).
You started cooing at three months, and if I had gone completely deaf the instant after I heard that sound, I would have been totally OK with it. Because really, it was the tops. And you looked so damn cute doing it, too.
You started daycare at four months, and DAMN, it was hard to leave that face in the morning.
S’cool, though. We made up for it on the evenings and weekends. You enjoyed your first Steelers season at five months…
…your first Halloween at six months…
…and your first Thanksgiving at seven months.
By Christmas, you were an eight-month-old bundle of pure personality.
By nine months, your body was finally starting to catch up to the get-up-and-go mentality you’ve had since day one.
At ten months, you took everything in. I could see you thinking, considering, examining. You were getting so independent.
(But you still needed me.)
You evolved into the biggest ham at eleven months, and as your aunt said, you sure aren’t stingy with the smiles.
Except, of course, when things are SO HORRIBLY, TRAGICALLY WRONG AND UNFAIR, O NOES!!1!!11!
(Do they teach that back-arching thing in daycare or something? Because, seriously, THEY ALL KNOW HOW TO DO IT.)
And now – quick as that (quicker, even) – you’re twelve months old. I wouldn’t trade one single second of the past year for anything. I love you more than I will ever be able to express. And I can’t wait to see what you’re gonna do next.
Happy Birthday, little Pigeon.
[You can watch a short video of the birthday festivities here. Keep an ear out for my voice cracking with Embarrassing Mom Emotions at the end of the “Happy Birthday” song!]
Entry filed under: Thanksgiving.