Lucky 13

Yesterday, my little dumpling, you turned 13 months old.

I always used to think it was so weird and irritating that parents would talk about their children's ages in months. Like a year, year and a half, two years wasn't precise enough. It had to be 12 months. 18 months. 24 months.

I was seriously all, "What the fuck is this 24 months business? Say two."

In my head. I didn't really berate parents out loud. Mostly because I tried to stay away from them. More in an effort to not be around children. Screamy, sticky, snotgobbling children.

And here we are, my screamy, sticky little snotgobbler.

Unfortunately, all those adjectives are oh so true lately.

You have a cold or allergies and your nose has been running nonstop for four days. Dad pulled the biggest booger imaginable out of your nose this morning. It was almost as big as your head. No lie.

We're headed to the pediatrician this afternoon.

Mostly because you are so congested and you can't sleep and you have this thick cough when you lie down, which I don't want to get stuck and turn into something worse. Also, we've spent three nights not sleeping and I just feel like none of us can take it anymore. We're all at the breaking point.

I know that our whole lives were like this when you were itty bitty, but it's hard to remember those days. I think it's kind of a protective amnesia sort of thing. Otherwise nobody would procreate more than once.

On a positive note, I've realized why parents say the months - because there's a huge difference between 12 and 13. Between 13 and 18. Huge.

You now not only say "Mama" and "Dada" but also, "hi!" and "hot!" You love saying "hot!" And then you do your best imitation of blowing on food in the way I do.

You've gotten to be kind of a difficult eater, and some days I have to resist the urge to pry your mouth open and just shove the food in. Sometimes I have to walk across the room to keep myself from doing so.

Although you fairly consistently love pasta and steamed broccoli with garlic and olive oil. By fairly consistently I mean: except on the days you don't.

And the other day you said, "pasta." It was more like, "pahta" - but it was pasta nonetheless!

You understand and love the words "walk" and "bath" and "yogurt" and "wall." You pick up books and galumph over, crawling as best you can with a book in one hand, to have us read to you.

We've been taking you to the park and you hate the swings with a passion, but you dive head first down the slide, squealing in delight. You then try to eat the wood chips at the bottom, which is beyond gross for so many reasons in a public park in DC.

You keep us very tired, but you make our lives so rich.

I love you like crazy.

Mama