I can’t believe it’s been nine months.
She’s been with us longer than we were waiting for her.
(Well, not really. Every mother know that pregnancy is really a ten month experience.) But still.
Somewhere along the way, my little lump became a dynamo.
She moves, constantly.
She believes that any time not spent pulling up or speed crawling or cruising is time wasted.
She stands, unassisted.
Until she realizes that she’s not holding onto anything.
She climbs stairs.
A determined smile and pride written on her face.
She is busy.
This weekend, after we returned from our vacation, she was so excited to see the dogs that she took a single step towards them.
And then she fell.
But it’s coming. She will do it soon.
Having a baby, welcoming a new member of the family, is hard.
Exhaustingly hard and breathtakingly beautiful.
She cackled today when her brother played the cymbals.
She laughed, deep from her belly.
Her whole body shook with joy.
And she tried to figure out how to bang those two pieces to metal together herself.
Before she chewed on them.
One day, at the beach, out family went to get ice cream.
As soon as we sat down, she stuck her hands in her father’s sundae, convinced it was for her.
And she was furious when we didn’t share.
She tried to climb into the bathtub earlier.
I wasn’t getting her ready as quickly as she thought I should.
She is nine months old.
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