Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Violet, sort of.

So my little three-toothed toddling ball of fire (I mean that in the nicest way possible, of course. Please don't hurt me. again.) We find ourselves at 11 months old tomorrow.  That's 11 months outside of me. 11 months of growing, or to put it more accurately, GROWING.
You, my sweet child, are ridiculously large. We're not just talking about the buddha belly your sister sports (which is so obvious even to herself that she has been telling me the baby in her belly is named 'Bimbi.') No, we're talking 2 1/2 neck rolls, segmented arms, ankles (ankles!) that I cannot begin to get a hand around, and bigger breasts than I had in 8th grade. Speaking of breasts, my own wondrous pair take full credit for each and every one of those rolls. And they could not be more proud. Battered and war-torn, yes. But proud, nonetheless.
You see, you are one of those babies. You know- the babies that refuse to be babied. You do not tolerate crawling. You have no interest in passively observing as an older sister takes your toy. And you have no use for baby food, nor does it make any difference to you whether it is called puree, mush, mash, or blended-form-of-whatever-we're-eating. You do however make mealtimes fearful and violent if you do not have EXACTLY what is on our own plates. And don't even try swapping that fork for a spoon. Not gonna happen. Pair this with your sparsely populated mouth and amazing ability to spit something out before it has even entered, and you get half a chickpea, the juice from an orange wedge, and possibly a sweet potato fry for dinner. Breakfast and lunch are usually not worth my effort. (Should I be admitting this?)
Last week when you were a two-toothed ball of fire, dinner was avocado oozed through fingers and splatter painted in a 15-foot radius. I mean, maybe you get some sort of sick nourishment from your artistic masterpieces, but it's probably just the milk. Here you were thinking this was about you and your 11-month achievements (so did I!) I'll blame it on Annie over at Motherhood and More who just wrote a tremendous ode to her A-cups, and obviously caused me to get so off track. But now that it's too late to go back: seriously- how completely awesome is it that I grew two babies from my chest?! I'm just saying.
Thank you. I'm just saying thank you. To the mothers who served as my examples while growing up, never knowing that by nourishing their own babies they were also nourishing mine. To my own mother, who nursed me and my sister for well over two years each. And to the God that granted me this one small service. The one thing I can give to my children that is, without a doubt, absolutely perfect.     

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