Dear Isaiah,
You are one year old now and I am just as crazy in love with you as the day I met you. You. You are my gift. My joy. My love. I wait for the moment every night when you crawl from your bed into mine, push your head into my rib cage, and immediately fall back to sleep. Somehow, the ridiculous awkwardness of it comforts us both. And the fact that you don't generally abuse your free pass to my mammary glands. It's been a few weeks now since your first turn around the sun and honestly if I had written this in a more timely manner, it would have been something along the lines of, "You're still my baby. But also, you're still a baby." I don't know if I can say that anymore. The first part, always. But suddenly the space you occupy in the world is so much more animated, communicative, conscious, defined, capable, toddler-like.
That you manage to pull off this toddler-esque persona is actually quite remarkable considering the only words you consistently say are 'Dada,' 'zhis,' and a version of 'cockadoodledoo'--and that you are still a crawling person. But you also stand with your back against the couch and catch balls. You climb the bathroom stool. Then stand on the top rung and hitch your leg onto the counter. Another week and you will be on the counter. Anyone who has been to our bathroom can attest to the sheer height and potential disaster this scenario suggests. You play ring-around-the-rosie with your sisters and tear down the hallway on your radio flyer push wagon. Just today I realized you know where your belly button, nose and toes are. And that if someone says, 'too loud!' you cover your ears with your hands. Also, you're a great kisser. This afternoon when I asked Violet to tell me the time, you waited until she walked away and then crawled to the spot she had been standing, pointed at the clock, and spouted off what I'm sure was a very accurate description of the exact angle of the sun's rays. In another language.
When I ask you if you want to sit in your high chair and eat dinner, you adamently tell me, 'uh-uh,' which sometimes means 'HELL NO' and sometimes means, 'YES!' You won't ask for milk in a respectable manner, but you will stick your fist down my shirt and insist on 'zhis.' And then there is the near constant shrieking. (Yes, you cover your own ears when you do this.) You spend a good portion of your day attempting to drill into your sisters' heads the concepts of personal space and free will. Another good chunk trying to get your distracted mother's attention. Both regretfully require high decibals. (You and the Vitamix account for why Mama's earplugs live perpetually on the kitchen counter.)
Your favorite book: Brown Bear, Brown Bear
Favorite activity: swinging in your new birthday swing
Favorite foods: bananas, meat, and water
Favorite toys: balls and anything with wheels
Favorite human being: Daddy. In fact, your love is so great that he has started sneaking in the door when he gets home from work just so he can take off his coat and shoes before your urgent Dada-shrieks claw at his ears and your tiny hands claw at his pants. There is no point at which you tire of him. (The reverse cannot also be said.) No point at which you willingly share him. You have many rituals together, involving cleaning each others' ears, watching dogs bark on YouTube, playing with feathers, and switching on and off lights.
On your first birthday, Grandma, Grandpa, Auntie Julia, and Uncle Sina, Ferida and Yue joined us for dinner, you became intimately familiar with frosting, and we took you trick-or-treating for the first time wearing your new mouse hat thoughtfully made by Auntie Julie. I made you your felt birthday crown, your sisters made you cards, and Daddy hung your tree swing. It was as simple as it gets. Leaving plenty of room for you. Happy belated birthday, Isaiah. You filled all my empty, dark corners.
.
You are one year old now and I am just as crazy in love with you as the day I met you. You. You are my gift. My joy. My love. I wait for the moment every night when you crawl from your bed into mine, push your head into my rib cage, and immediately fall back to sleep. Somehow, the ridiculous awkwardness of it comforts us both. And the fact that you don't generally abuse your free pass to my mammary glands. It's been a few weeks now since your first turn around the sun and honestly if I had written this in a more timely manner, it would have been something along the lines of, "You're still my baby. But also, you're still a baby." I don't know if I can say that anymore. The first part, always. But suddenly the space you occupy in the world is so much more animated, communicative, conscious, defined, capable, toddler-like.
That you manage to pull off this toddler-esque persona is actually quite remarkable considering the only words you consistently say are 'Dada,' 'zhis,' and a version of 'cockadoodledoo'--and that you are still a crawling person. But you also stand with your back against the couch and catch balls. You climb the bathroom stool. Then stand on the top rung and hitch your leg onto the counter. Another week and you will be on the counter. Anyone who has been to our bathroom can attest to the sheer height and potential disaster this scenario suggests. You play ring-around-the-rosie with your sisters and tear down the hallway on your radio flyer push wagon. Just today I realized you know where your belly button, nose and toes are. And that if someone says, 'too loud!' you cover your ears with your hands. Also, you're a great kisser. This afternoon when I asked Violet to tell me the time, you waited until she walked away and then crawled to the spot she had been standing, pointed at the clock, and spouted off what I'm sure was a very accurate description of the exact angle of the sun's rays. In another language.
When I ask you if you want to sit in your high chair and eat dinner, you adamently tell me, 'uh-uh,' which sometimes means 'HELL NO' and sometimes means, 'YES!' You won't ask for milk in a respectable manner, but you will stick your fist down my shirt and insist on 'zhis.' And then there is the near constant shrieking. (Yes, you cover your own ears when you do this.) You spend a good portion of your day attempting to drill into your sisters' heads the concepts of personal space and free will. Another good chunk trying to get your distracted mother's attention. Both regretfully require high decibals. (You and the Vitamix account for why Mama's earplugs live perpetually on the kitchen counter.)
Your favorite book: Brown Bear, Brown Bear
Favorite activity: swinging in your new birthday swing
Favorite foods: bananas, meat, and water
Favorite toys: balls and anything with wheels
Favorite human being: Daddy. In fact, your love is so great that he has started sneaking in the door when he gets home from work just so he can take off his coat and shoes before your urgent Dada-shrieks claw at his ears and your tiny hands claw at his pants. There is no point at which you tire of him. (The reverse cannot also be said.) No point at which you willingly share him. You have many rituals together, involving cleaning each others' ears, watching dogs bark on YouTube, playing with feathers, and switching on and off lights.
On your first birthday, Grandma, Grandpa, Auntie Julia, and Uncle Sina, Ferida and Yue joined us for dinner, you became intimately familiar with frosting, and we took you trick-or-treating for the first time wearing your new mouse hat thoughtfully made by Auntie Julie. I made you your felt birthday crown, your sisters made you cards, and Daddy hung your tree swing. It was as simple as it gets. Leaving plenty of room for you. Happy belated birthday, Isaiah. You filled all my empty, dark corners.
