Dear Sabrina,
I’m sorry this is a little bit late, what with the birthday celebrations and out of town visits and first days of school that didn’t focus on you. No one has forgotten that you’ve turned 17 months old, just one month from being a year and a half, or respectfully able to transition from recording your age in months to years. You are growing up both incredibly slowly and frighteningly quickly all at once.
You do so many things that belie your age (that’s a fancy word for saying you’re too smart for your tender year). And it’s something different and new nearly every day. You climb up into the car by yourself, and a half-expect you to have mastered buckling yourself in by next month. You pull open the back door your dad unlocked to go outside and mow the lawn, saunter over to pick up a trowel or a shovel, and plop yourself down in the flowerbed to do some serious digging. I ought to hit the farmer’s market for some flowers you can plant. You dance almost every time you hear music, and it’s the most adorable thing you’ve done to date (and yes, I am biased, but everyone who’s seen you boogie down has said the same thing). You drive me up the wall by getting into the DVD cabinet, opening all the boxes (even the hard ones) and tossing the contents to the wind. And you have finely tuned your destructive tendencies to the point where my pile of stuff to fix is too tall to stand upright and I’ve had to toss out more irreparable toys and books than I care to remember.
You’ve also become a little politician, and can charm the pants off anyone you meet, including store cashiers, postal workers, your brother’s teachers (who are ready to adopt you), and everyone who sits near us in church. Seriously, when you stick out your hand and say “Peeece!” well, it might be even more adorable than the dancing.
When we took Sammy to meet his teachers last week, you ran around the classroom making it your own, to the point that they suggested you enroll as well. You are even old enough to qualify, yet they – professional educators – think you’re ready. That’s what I mean about being ahead of yourself. I had to keep an eye on you every nanosecond because if I lost you, you’d have run down the hall to the kids your size and been absorbed into the class before I could turn around. Someday, Baby, someday.
And speaking of Sammy, now that he’s in school every day, it means you and I will be sharing a lot of one on one time, something you didn’t get at the beginning, being the second child and all. I want to make it super quality time, and I’m looking forward to hanging out with you, running errands just us girl, and maybe a few surprises along the way, especially if the weather holds. Right now, I know you think it’s cool because you have the run of every toy in the house. Enjoy, Sweetie.
As I type this, I’m watching you play rock star with a toy microphone. Shades of the future? I don’t know, but it’s fun to watch you try things out and try things on, using your imagination. Of course, it might be that much better if you didn’t try to eat the microphone. We’ll work on that.
One more promise while I’m at it: I won’t let Daddy cut your hair. Ever.
Love,
Mommy
I’m sorry this is a little bit late, what with the birthday celebrations and out of town visits and first days of school that didn’t focus on you. No one has forgotten that you’ve turned 17 months old, just one month from being a year and a half, or respectfully able to transition from recording your age in months to years. You are growing up both incredibly slowly and frighteningly quickly all at once.
You do so many things that belie your age (that’s a fancy word for saying you’re too smart for your tender year). And it’s something different and new nearly every day. You climb up into the car by yourself, and a half-expect you to have mastered buckling yourself in by next month. You pull open the back door your dad unlocked to go outside and mow the lawn, saunter over to pick up a trowel or a shovel, and plop yourself down in the flowerbed to do some serious digging. I ought to hit the farmer’s market for some flowers you can plant. You dance almost every time you hear music, and it’s the most adorable thing you’ve done to date (and yes, I am biased, but everyone who’s seen you boogie down has said the same thing). You drive me up the wall by getting into the DVD cabinet, opening all the boxes (even the hard ones) and tossing the contents to the wind. And you have finely tuned your destructive tendencies to the point where my pile of stuff to fix is too tall to stand upright and I’ve had to toss out more irreparable toys and books than I care to remember.
You’ve also become a little politician, and can charm the pants off anyone you meet, including store cashiers, postal workers, your brother’s teachers (who are ready to adopt you), and everyone who sits near us in church. Seriously, when you stick out your hand and say “Peeece!” well, it might be even more adorable than the dancing.
When we took Sammy to meet his teachers last week, you ran around the classroom making it your own, to the point that they suggested you enroll as well. You are even old enough to qualify, yet they – professional educators – think you’re ready. That’s what I mean about being ahead of yourself. I had to keep an eye on you every nanosecond because if I lost you, you’d have run down the hall to the kids your size and been absorbed into the class before I could turn around. Someday, Baby, someday.
And speaking of Sammy, now that he’s in school every day, it means you and I will be sharing a lot of one on one time, something you didn’t get at the beginning, being the second child and all. I want to make it super quality time, and I’m looking forward to hanging out with you, running errands just us girl, and maybe a few surprises along the way, especially if the weather holds. Right now, I know you think it’s cool because you have the run of every toy in the house. Enjoy, Sweetie.
As I type this, I’m watching you play rock star with a toy microphone. Shades of the future? I don’t know, but it’s fun to watch you try things out and try things on, using your imagination. Of course, it might be that much better if you didn’t try to eat the microphone. We’ll work on that.
One more promise while I’m at it: I won’t let Daddy cut your hair. Ever.
Love,
Mommy
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