Do you remember that movie Tremors? The one with Reba McEntire? About the big snake like creatures that burrowed under ground and ruptured to the surface from beneath to devour people? I’m pretty sure this is your best impression of that.
It’s a pretty good impression if I do say so myself.
You are so lovely.
And so silly.
I’m trying to bottle up my sentimentality because I know in just one short month you will be a year old. You will no longer be an infant. You will be a toddler. Just typing the words makes me misty eyed.
I’ve been working with you trying to teach you to hold up one finger when some asks you, “How old are you?” Instead you hold up all 10 fingers and cackle at me and then cry for more oatmeal. Because the only time I get to work with you on things like that is when you are in your high chair. Only lately you’ve been crying every time I try to talk to you while you’re eating. You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t need to me to talk; you just need me to shovel it on in. Boy, you really love your oatmeal.
Does oatmeal change your diapers? Does oatmeal rock you to sleep? Will oatmeal comfort you at 2am when you wake up in a panic? Does oatmeal take you to see Gamma and does oatmeal let you play with Posey?
But it does keep you regular.
Here’s a picture of you and your BFF Posey. Where I find one of you, I shall there find the other.
A few questions I have for you:
How’d you get your arm out of your sweatshirt?
How did get such blonde hair and blue eyes?
What in the world do you think you’re smiling at?
Why in the world are you crying?
And why won’t you grow hair on the sides of your head?
Baby, you are full of mischief and wonder. Let me tell you a little secret. You may look just like your Daddy, but dadblastit, if you don’t act just like me. Girl. We have a long road ahead of us. You have become defiant and more than willing to suffer your punishment so that you can do what you want. Cass. Baby. I get it. I do. But right now you don’t. You think you want something that you really don’t want. I know because I’ve been there. I know what it’ll do to you. I know that when you get what you want you’ll be burned. You’ll cry in pain. You’ll wish you’d never had it.
So I’m telling you again, like I tell you everyday: Stay away from the heater. Do not touch the heater.
Don’t test me, Sweetheart. I don’t want to discipline you. But I will.
Cause I’m your Mama and I love you.