10 months

Dear Annika,

The 10th month of your life was a busy one. Sometimes it was fun; sometimes not quite. You went with us to Oregon in mid-January to see the West Coast side of the family and go skiing. Well, the grown-ups went skiing, anyway. You got to do plenty of other fun things. You liked the airport; so many people, so many things to see! Waiting for our flight west, I let you explore the gate area. There was an old shoe-shine fellow across the corridor who thought you were very charming, and coaxed you to crawl over and visit with him. You like people, as long as they don't try to take you away from Mama. On the flight, you cried a bit when your ears hurt, but otherwise you were happy to destroy the SkyMall catalog and the flight magazine, drum on the tray, and play "let's try to remove Dad's glasses". You were tired as hell when we got to great-grandma Lillian's house, but with all the family assembled there, all eager to make you the center of attention, and a bunch of new toys on the floor, you wouldn't even consider going to sleep. You discovered that when someone builds a tower of stacking cups, it's a great rush to knock it over. What a lesson for a baby to learn - "destruction is fun!" But at 10 months, anything that keeps a kid's attention focused on something harmless is easily rationalized.

The next day we went to Bend, and settled into the rental house. You immediately liked it for the wide-open floor plan of the living room/dining area/kitchen, and amused yourself by zipping across the floor from one end to the other. Pulling up on the couch and coffee table also gave you a thrill. You got to hang out with Anne the first day there, then went to Smith Rock the second day, played with uncle Alex on the third day, and with Grandma Karin on the last day. We thought this would be your first experience with snow, but in fact the weather was unseasonably warm and there was no snow to be had in Bend. When your dad and uncle Ben were sitting around the coffee table with their computers, you finally had one of these interesting toys within reach. Pretty soon, you learned that if you smack your hand down on the keyboard, usually something happens on the computer screen. And anyone who intervened on behalf of the computer's safety was asking for an earful of high-pitched screeching indicating your displeasure.

All in all, it was a great trip, and we won't dwell on how it completely disrupted your sleep schedule, or how for the rest of the month after we got back, you've had a nice continuous string of colds, stomach bugs, and ear infections. The doctor's office is so familiar now I could probably get there in my sleep. Oh, and teething too. I suppose it's a good thing for a human to acquire teeth rather than being born with them, but really, come on. There's gotta be a better way.

We finally finished your bedroom - curtains and quarter-round and a soft purple rug. I got white flower-shaped wall mounted lights at Ikea, and I'm amazed and gratified that you actually like them. I figured you'd ignored them until you turned 10, at which point you'd announce that you were a big girl and flower lights were for babies. But when you see them, you grin and reach out to touch them. I'm not so great with decorating, but just this once I feel like I scored top marks.

I think my favorite moment of this month, though, was the one that spoke to my deepest heart of hearts, my innermost core. Namely, the geeky bookworm. We were sitting on the floor in your nursery room, and you were flipping the pages of "At The Zoo." But you were holding it upside down, and you seemed aware that something wasn't right but you couldn't figure out how to fix it. So I held out my hand and said "Do you want me to read you the book?" And you looked up at me, and somewhere a choir of angels started singing, and you handed me the book. The confluence of developmental accomplishments in that simple movement was incredible - it was the first time that you've deliberately given me an object, the first time that you clearly showed an understanding that a book is more than just random colors, shapes and textures, the first time that you made the conceptual leap that sometimes in order to get something, you have to give something, and that someone else could do something for you that you can't do on your own. So I pulled you into my lap, and read to you, and - another small miracle - you didn't try to grab the book away, or flip the pages in your own preferred order.

And then I woke up.

Just kidding. It really did happen, though I hardly believed it at the time. You've also let me read "Happy Baby Alphabet" straight through, but for some reason "Goodnight Moon" just doesn't do it for you. Hasn't anyone informed you that it's a timeless classic?

Some other games you've discovered or invented this month - rolling a raquetball from me to you and back again, grabbing my thumbs and using them to clap my hands together, and "reorganizing" the contents of your clothes dresser by pulling every single item of clothing out and tossing it on the floor. This last exercise amuses me, in part because I can't figure out any reason to do it other than for the sake of entropy itself; it's not as if you're interested in playing with the clothes, or expecting to find any toys in there.

Another great game you've found is torturing our gray cat Selena. This kitty deserves to be elevated to sainthood - she puts up with having her ears twisted, her tail pulled, her fur yanked out, and her body squished under yours. And all the while, she purrs. I worry that she's giving you a very misleading picture of how cats like to be treated, and I try to explain and show you how to be gentle, but you just push my hands out of the way. I'm sure sooner or later, some other cat will set you straight. When they do, I'll clean up the mess and try not to say "I told you so."


Love,
Mama