Happy 16 month birthday!

Last weekend, I heard a song on NPR that really hit home. The words of the chorus are “you ruined everything, in the nicest way”. And Connor, that is so true. During the interview, the artist talked about how after a child is born – particularly in the first three months – a parent’s old self dies, and like a phoenix, the new self must rise from the ashes. And while this initially struck me as a bit dramatic, I’m not really sure it is. Perhaps the most amazing thing about the whole process in my case – and I think this is typical – is that I can hardly remember what my life was like before you were born. This might be a product of sleep deprivation, but I think that explanation would be a bit shallow at this point – particularly since in the past month I think we’ve only had really one brutally rough night and early morning. I think it’s because my life is so full with you, that it’s hard to remember what I’m missing. Staying out late and sleeping in late the next day are wonderful things, I assure you (and someday I hope to experience them again), but watching someone go from doing seemingly nothing besides eating and sleeping to running, climbing, talking, and laughing is totally worth the trade-off. But, if you wanted to throw your dad and I a bone on occasion and sleep until 9:00 AM some weekend, we would be totally cool with that.


Today was a real treat. Because your nanny was sick, we were able to spend the whole day together, which isn’t something we get to do too often – usually we have your dad around as well. We visited a wonderful children’s bookstore for story hour, which came complete with a dog I had forgotten about. Although you didn’t seem to be totally into the whole group interaction thing, you surprised me when the storyteller stopped and you signed “more” and also kept signing “book”. I think you could’ve done without the songs in between books, but those restless children next to us needed a break. They just don’t grasp how cool it is for someone to be reading – particularly a new book. When the dog showed up, that was even cooler, which prompted you to walk right up to the front of the group, where you hung out for the remainder of the story.


You are really growing up now, because not only have you mastered the concept of more, you have taken it the direction most people take it which is “more is better”. So, where we used to be able to stick one toy in your left hand and another in your right, you now think this is not nearly enough stuff to carry around. I’ve seen the Little People in your hands number five. I fear it is as much because you want to carry a bunch of things somewhere as it is a desire to keep your things to yourself and not let anyone else mess them up. I suppose it was bound to happen.

You have also shown that we should do our best as parents to keep you away from drugs and other addictive substances. I’m hopeful that Frosted Mini-Wheats are not the gateway drug that they appear to be. Oh, how you love your precious shredded wheat. Prior to you, your dad and I never had this marvelous substance in our home. But, Isabella brought some one day, and like all good drugs – the first one’s free. And from the moment you got your paw on one, you were hooked. So much so that when you see the box of shredded wheat, you get very excited (even if you’ve just eaten), begging for more. And you need three. One for your mouth plus one for each of your hands. You love your shredded wheat so much that I have taken to calling it crack. While you are more than happy to hurl just about anything – oh the agony you go through when your precious cereal is in your hand. You want to throw it, but you don’t want to hurt it. So, you don’t. You cling to them until the first piece has dissolved in your mouth and you can reload. Sometimes when I’m not done with dinner and you’re ready for me to be, I lure you back to your chair with a couple of shredded wheats. I want to be supportive of your habit, after all.

You are also obsessed with balls - or bawas. Kicking them, throwing them, pointing to them, carrying them. Anything...


You’ve become expert at heading down the slide on your tummy and your shoes cause you absolutely no pause at all. You can open and close the doors and windows on your house, playing peek-a-boo. You hide under sheets, know just what to do when I say “dogpile Daddy” and you’ve even started calling him “Ed” on occasion – which would torture some other daddies, but yours seems to be fine with it.

Your laugh, Connor, is contagious. And you always keep us guessing about what will be funny. For example, I wouldn’t have guessed that seeing lots of monkeys in a book or a little caterpillar go from small to big would be so funny – but you know it’s coming and you can hardly slow down enough for your dad or I to read the words – and then when the right page arrives, you laugh. You also think it’s funny whenever you see a dog where you’re not expecting one. When we were launching Little People into the bath to go swimming yesterday that was also terribly funny.

You’re an ace at identifying body parts – from toes to nose – on yourself, in pictures, and on others. You seem to understand almost everything your dad or I says, which may mean we need to change what we say – and in some cases I’ve started the age-old trick of spelling something if I want to make sure you don’t overhear something. I figure I have at least a couple of weeks before you can spell.

I’m glad you ruined my life. It’s been an amazing 16 months.

Elaine