Dear Maia,

Nothing makes one so aware of the passage of time as becoming a parent.  As usual, I’ve had a hard time accepting that you’re growing up, and even though I’m typing this at 11pm on the 12th, I still call you my 7 month old.  I can’t believe we’ve been together for so long, and at the same time that I am so proud of you growing up healthy, smart, and strong, I stare at my face in the mirror and wonder where time has gone, how I’ve ended up this close to being 27 — so close to 30.  30? That’s how old your Babcha is in my mind, eternally.

As you might be able to tell from that paragraph, this has been a mind-blowing month, one that has left me feeling alternately scatter-brained and ultra-focused.  The month began in a devastating fashion: you went on a nursing strike.

One thing this showed me, however, is that you are a stunningly independent child (also, that you’re very stubborn).  I think that independence is at the root of why you decided to reject nursing, and then return just as suddenly: you felt like exercising your free will.  And to that I say YOU GO, GIRL (that is, now that I have a breast pump).  We’ve recovered from this just fine, mostly, except now we face the challenge of you biting me nearly every time you delatch.  I still yell “NO!” or “OUCH!” or the very Canadian “EH?!” (I wish I were joking) when you do, but instead of crying as if you’re the one that got bitten, like you used to, you now let out a little chuckle and stare up at me innocently.  Pro tip: if you want me to think you did it unintentionally, DON’T LAUGH AFTERWARD.  I’m totally on to your game.

The pain of these bites is from your two little teeth, right in the center of your bottom gum, which have finally begun showing enough that people notice them. This is a source of constant pride for me, although you’ve now gone nearly a month and a half without any other teeth coming in.  I’m kind of wondering if they’ll ever show up.  You’ve been drooling like a damned fountain for a few weeks now, so I’m expecting something relatively soon.  I figure if I keep thinking you’re teething, eventually I’ll be right.

Oh Maia, YOUR HAIR.  I love it.  There are strands that now reach to the back of your shoulderblades.  I’m so impressed with it.  Everyone insists that it’s growing in blonde in the back, but I know better; it’s just that you have less at the back, and so it looks lighter.  The fact is, if you had dirty blonde hair, you’d end up looking VAGUELY like me, and we all know that can’t happen. We have discovered that you and I have two things in common: we both have big feet and big butts.  Congratulations my dear, you’ve got the biggest and best baby badonkadonk on the block.

Can we talk about how huge you look?  You are thisclose to outgrowing your infant car seat.  It’s good up to 30 inches and you’re hovering around 27.5.  If we count your crazy pigtails, you’re probably at 30.  This is the first month we’ve put your hair up like that and I must say, I think it’s very fetching.  Little wisps of bangs escape to brush your forehead and the nape of your neck, and I just want to gobble you up.  Maia, NO ONE can pass you by when you have pigtails without remarking upon it.  It’s clinically impossible.

Physically, you’re still not quite walking, although you have taken a few steps on your own.  You get so excited about the fact that you’re learning how to balance yourself this way that you invariably end up flapping your arms around and falling over, which infuriates you.  So I have to pick you up and soothe you, and then when I try to set you down you’re apt to start babbling “Mamamama” in between whining, until you’re over being butt-hurt about losing your balance.

You have decided that solid food is the most amazing thing ever.  This means that on Sunday, at your first Thanksgiving, you ate turkey, cranberry sauce, scalloped potatoes, green bean casserole, and some squash.  Also, I let you have a taste of key lime pie, apple pie, and pumpkin pie.  Your favourite food is, by far, butternut squash.  I am forever roasting it up for you to nibble on.  I also love squash, so I’m delighted that you have good taste.  You seem to like everything that I make and let you try, except for the Moroccan-spiced lentils and brown rice which you promptly spat out and started screaming at me for feeding you.  But then later, when they were cold and we tried again, you liked them, so who knows.  You’re just a little gourmande.

You still haven’t quite gotten the hang of drinking from a cup.  You love when I hold your sippy cup up so you can drink from it, but the second you have to hold it up yourself, you get pissed and bang it against the floor until the top flies off.  Have I mentioned that the dogs really love when I give you a sippy cup?  I decided to outsmart you, and got you a cup with a straw instead, but that just made you even angrier.  So our interim solution, until you set your mind on drinking on your own, is for me to hold an “adult” glass to your lips.  You kind of chew on the rim of the cup, causing the liquid inside to slosh all over your face and in your mouth, then smack your lips together and lean forward for more.  You love sharing orange juice with us in the morning.

You’ve had your first real injury, in the dressing room of a department store, when you put your hand in a baseboard heating unit that was then turned on.  Believe me, I feel like the WORST parent in the history of ever about this, and I only hope it doesn’t scar too badly.  You’ve definitely coped with it far better than I, and it’s healing beautifully.  When we took you to the doctor to have your burns checked out and see if we needed any ointment for them, she said I could just keep applying breastmilk to the burns because they looked great.  You know, as great as hideous burns on a little baby hand can look.  I know that someday you’ll be like “MOM THAT IS SO GROSS THAT YOU PUT BREASTMILK ON MY HANDS” but hey, whatever works.

Your favourite thing to do right now is watch this video of “I Gotta Feeling”.  I don’t think it’s possible for me to put into words how much your father and I hated that song, until one day he for some unknown reason (fate?) clicked on a link to the above video, with you in his lap, and you sat there absolutely mesmerized for the entirety of it… then started whining and complaining when it ended.  Want to know how many times a day that video is played in our household?  Let’s just say that the video has 1.4million views at the moment, and I think we’re responsible for the .4.

I returned to work, leaving you and Daddy together.  The first few days were rough, but when I came home one night to see you two like this… well, I knew everything would be okay:

Do you see the little smile he’s trying to hide?

Yeah, we kinda like having you around, papaya.

All our love,
Mama & Daddy.