I haven’t written to or about you for a long time. But I would hate to forget how you are today. You are in constant motion. I doubt if I can even write down all you’ve done in the last 5 minutes. Right now, you are behind the barrier of chair and footstool that is supposed to keep you out of the books and record player. You go from one “toy” to another, dragging a shoe by a string, crawling over pillows, laying with your rocker toy, eating lint you find on the floor. The tooth marks at the top of the page are yours and if my writing is shaky, it is because right now you are grabbing the book and going for the pen.
You crawl very fast—I sometimes have to run to catch you as you head for danger. Now you are just sitting. I think making a messy diaper. Even for that you don’t stop long and are off across the kitchen to the door—no, you stopped, put something in your mouth. As you tried to stand by your highchair you pulled the tray off—then I tried to get what you ate out of your mouth. A terrible insult and you are crying. I just can’t keep up with all you do.
You have 6 teeth. Your nose has been runny for a week so either more teeth are on the way, or you’ve had a small cold.
You aren’t walking yet, but you are very close—you pull yourself up and walk around holding on to the furniture. The house gets smaller by the minute for both of us.
I guess you are tired—you are fussing, and you need your diaper changed.