Dearest Danjo,
You are now thirteen months old.
Kind of a let down after turning twelve months and its corresponding festivities?
I forgot to say when you turned one year old, so I'll say it now: a BIG thank you to all of the people (and animals, that's you too, mister loyal, cuddly, psuedo-guard dog, Lapu) who helped you survive a whole year.
No, really.
I mean, SURVIVE.
Thank you, thank you, yada, yada for the support and all. You know, the general care and concern, outpouring of love and time from all directions.
But, I mean, like SURVIVE survive. You really might have not made it if there weren't so many eyes watching you.
You are a quicky quickster and tricky trickster to begin with; add an ever-emotionally-imploding older sister in the mix and well, let's just say it's not abnormal to find me running around the house, after attending to someone else's need or another, yelling, "DANIELLEY! WHERE ARE YOU!? WHERE ARE YOU?! MARIBEL, DO YOU KNOW WHERE DANIELLE IS? DANIELLE! FOR REALS! WHERE ARE YOU?!? COME HERE RIGHT NOW!"
And our house is only 1018 square feet.
And you'll crawl innocently out of hiding, from the bathroom or a closet, from under the bed or behind the couch, carrying a toy in your mouth (as your hands are occupied with crawling), like: "Hey, what's up mom? I was just building a bomb back there. Relax."
And I'm all: "DANIELLEY YOU COULD HAVE DIED IN THERE!"
And I clutch you to my chest and promise I'll never take my eyes off of you ever EVER ever again. And you'll snuggle me and smile and generally melt my heart.
Then, I'll blink.
And when I open my eyes a millisecond later you're standing on top of a rocking horse, playing the piano, having already mixed yourself a drink from the liquor cabinet, turned off the television, turned on the radio and fan, read no less than fifteen books which you've strewn across the floor and unfolded every piece of laundry in the house, including those inside of three separate dressers.
And I'm not exaggerating 95% of that.
So, basically, given the amount of ground you cover each day, I just need to teach you to dust. And we'll be good to go.
You've taken a couple of steps here and there. You're in no hurry to walk. You are just fine, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, as you say to passersby who comment on your "inability" to walk while you also flip them the bird, which they mistake for cute baby waving.
You are not unable to walk. You get it, I'm sure. You are simply unwilling.
Did you catch it earlier when I said that you carry things in your MOUTH? Like a DOG? As parents have told me, many children start walking at the point at which they think: hey, I'd like to carry this thing over there, but, by golly, I can't crawl AND use my opposable thumbs at the same time. Let's try this thing!
Not you. No.
You have a toy in your hand. You look up at us walking creatures, down at the object in your hand, back up at us, then put the item in your mouth and crawl to the other room. LIKE A DOG?!
Unwilling, I tell you.
Sounds familiar. When I gave birth to your sister, I asked if I HAD to push during the next contraction. The nurse said, no, you don't have to, but this baby's gonna come out sooner or later, you gotta face the music sometime. Oh, and another time, when your dad and I were dating, he paid for me to take snowboarding lessons (while he went off on his own). We rented all the gear, bought some too. After a couple falls, I REFUSED to go down that bunny hill with the rest of the class who left me in the (snow) dust.
"Listen," the instructor said, "you have to decide that this is what you want to do."
"That's the thing, I don't want to," I replied.
And that was that. She told me she had to leave me to attend to the other students. I could choose to meet her at the bottom of the hill in five minutes or I could go to the ticket office, tell them I'm sick and get my money for the lesson back, like a LOSER.
I think she thought she was being inspirational.
I found it to be informational.
You can guess where I was five minutes later.
I doubt this will happen to you, Danjo, since you seem to be very athletic, but I empathize with your On My Own Terms mentality.
Also, I fear the Day You Start Walking. I'm pretty sure it will also be the Day You Start Running. And the Day I Remove All Sharp Objects From the House.
Please send bubble wrap. Or a large mammal kennel.
Love,
