Dear Maia,
Today you turn eleven months old, and all I can think is how young that seems. When I think of you, I think of a kid; when I think of an eleven month old, I think of a baby. But you’re not. You walk, talk, interact; you have a distinct personality, you know what you like (and don’t like), you are fiercely independent, and above all, you are fun. Babies? They’re definitely not as fun.
You love to dance and clap. I don’t really like to leave the television if I’m not watching something in particular, but it’s tempting to when I know that any music — fast, slow, awesome or stupid — is going to catch your attention and cause you to start shaking your groove thang.
This past month has been an exciting one for you, with Grandma visiting, going to see family, and your first Christmas, as well as other fun things like taking Buffy to the vet on Boxing Day (stupid dog) and going to see the Olympic torch pass through our town. People keep asking me if you “get” Christmas, and if by that they mean do you understand the concept of celebrating Jesus’ birth or Santa Claus bringing presents then, no, you don’t “get” Christmas. But if they’re really asking whether you had fun celebrating the holiday, then the answer is an emphatic yes.
You enjoyed the Christmas gatherings, and although you were not terribly interested in opening presents (a fact which blows my mind, because if we were to give you a newspaper, you’d spend the next half hour shredding it and squealing with glee), you sure did like them once they were out of the wrapping paper.
By far, your favourite presents were the blocks. Babcia and Grandma both got you blocks, which is great because you now have enough that, no matter where you go in the house, there will always be a block hiding out somewhere nearby. Mommy and Daddy are marginally less thrilled at this fact than you are.
You also love your books (not so much the puppet in the background, obviously). You were given something like four or five books for Christmas, and you like to bring them to me one at a time to read. The one you’re holding in this picture, How Do I Love You?
(aff) made me cry the first time I read it to you, because it’s so damned sweet.
I have to say, though, that your favourite part of this month was going to visit Santa. Not because of Santa himself — you see, in that picture you have your worried face on, your oh shit why are Mommy & Daddy not holding me? face — but because here, you met your soulmate: Man Playing Guitar And Singing.
You stared at this guy for like four or five minutes, Maia, and every time we moved you away you just beelined back to him. You weren’t interested in dancing or clapping with his music; you simply wanted to watch him in amazement.
Since then, you’ve learned how to point at things that intrigue you, which I’m somewhat grateful you didn’t understand then as you would have pointed at him the whole time, as if we didn’t already know you were interested. Here at home, you point at things like the floaty balloon that came attached to my birthday flowers, or the dogs, or the mirror, and we show them to you, and you are delighted with the fact that you are communicating with us clearly — or more accurately, you’re delighted that we’re listening.
You really enjoy pointing at the pictures on the walls — they’re pictures of you. We got them for Daddy for Father’s Day. I hold you, point at each of the 14 pictures, and describe what is going on in them. Mostly we giggle together — Maia doesn’t like her hat! is a pretty funny picture, I must admit — but there is one picture that always makes me stop in my tracks, so it’s the last one we look at together.
I say, “This is brand-new Maia, not even a minute old,” and I start to choke up as I look at you, naked and pink and squinty-eyed, curled up on my chest, your dark hair plastered to your forehead, your perfect little pouty lips, your hand pressed to my skin. That you were ever so small and new baffles me, and I can’t believe that from that new little creature has sprung this active, sassy toddler.
You are still so exquisitely perfect that it makes my heart hurt, though. I love every moment of being your Mama better than the last, and we are so lucky to have you in our life.
All our love,
Mama & Daddy.
