seventeen months

dear claire,

happy seventeen months, darlin'. you are for sure giving me a run for my money. but every time you pump up the volume on the tantrums, you bring it up a few notches in the sweet baby department too. for example, you can not make it through a meal without being completely dissatisfied. so much so, that you flail around in hysterics. GD PIECES OF TURKEY!!! BURN IN HOT HELL STRAWBERRY PUFFS!!! DON'T EVEN LOOK AT ME YOU JERKFACE PEAS!!!!!

how dare they.







but on the other hand, tonight you fussed in your crib at about 11pm. i went and picked you up and brought you out to the couch for a snuggle. you laid your head on my chest, snuggled your legs in my lap and fell back asleep. i sat there and stared at you. after a few minutes, you reached your hand up and rested it on my cheek. i whispered, "i love you baby". and as if it was a part of your dreams you mumbled, "my mama".





i wont deny that about 4 hours before that happened i was sitting on that very same couch fighting tears of frustration because you wanted your shoes both on and off at the EXACT SAME TIME and you were apparently trying to summons child protective services by screaming like i was trying to burn you with a lit shoe or whip you with some baby tube socks...

this too shall pass. right?





this month we've learned a lot about each other. you've learned that i don't enjoy chicken and stars poured down my cleavage. while i've learned that you don't enjoy chicken and stars. you've learned that i've been trying to trick you into watching cartoons at 7am so i can sleep longer. while i've learned that you know how to turn the tv off. you've learned that if you scream in the car i will put on the wheels on the bus song. i've learned that you don't notice that my brain is melting and my ears are bleeding by the 15th time the wipers go swish swish swish.

swish swish swish.

swish swish swish.





lets not forget your new tricks for the month! this month you've perfected "high five", "low five" and "pound it". you can put on a pair of sunglasses, and a hat. you've mastered the art of running. and spinning in circles. you grew a bunch of teeth in the back on your mouth and can now take actual human bites of things and chew them up. you learned a bunch of new words such as "wuh" (walk), "eee-oh" (cheerio), "din" (dinner), "anamo" (animal), & "pweez" (givemeadamnedgranolabarbiatch). i am so proud. genius. you're like doogie howser, but a lot more stylish.





this month you experienced your first moderate earthquake. you were at school when it happened so i didn't get to see if you enjoyed it as much as i did. but when i called your teacher she confirmed the following:

miss teacher chick: hello?
me: hi, it's claire's mom.
miss teacher chick: hi.
me: did any large objects fall on claire's head?
miss teacher chick: no
me: are there still walls to keep the children from running into the street.
miss teacher chick: yes.
me: i ordered my child stirred, not shaken. can i get a refund?
miss teacher chick: what?
me: what? ok thanks bye.

so we're ok. the only damage in the condo was the bedroom door had swung shut and trapped the cat in there. i wonder if i can sue FEMA for emotional damage inflicted upon ava.





being a mama is hard. as you get older its getting harder and harder to do it alone. i'm trying really hard to be patient and loving. when i get frustrated with your fits of rage i keep telling myself... "i can't wait until she's old enough to understand why she can't both wear and not wear her shoes at once...", but then i realize that these little tantrums you throw are the last bit of "baby" left in you. they are the last bit of stroller ridin', bottle drinkin', pacifier suckin' baby. the next time i blink my eyes you'll be wearing an ugly hannah montana hoodie and asking me if boys have vaginas. so i'm just going to sit here. with my eyes wide open. watching you turn beet red, scream like a mental person, bury your face into the carpet and kick your feet... with one shoe off, and one shoe on.



love you for a billion more blinks,

mama