When I was watching Aida walk and climb on the jungle gym this morning, my memory flashed to a book my parents used to read to me and my sister. "Look at me now!" had a cover the color of split pea soup and it was all about growing from a teeny-tiny baby to a Big Kid, capable of doing everything from walking and playing with a ball to, you guessed it, using the Big Kid potty.
I don't know what I thought would happen before I became a parent, but I certainly didn't realize how fast an infant moves from barely being able to sit up or make intentional noises like laughter to climbing stairs and fetching shoes on demand.
I mean, three weeks ago, Aida still preferred crawling over walking.
Now, she's, well ...
and
(oh, and the buzz you're hearing is from the parks workers edging and mowing, not a huge bee...)
I mean, seriously. Look at her now!
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Aida's sky
Tonight when I got home, I followed and watched as Aida wandered around our backyard.
She spied a lizard and stopped, then chased it until it disappeared.
She picked up leaves and crunched them between her fingers.
She started to eat a rock.
At one point, in surprise, she pointed at the sky and squealed. I turned from facing her to see what she saw. And there it was. A bright sliver of light shining over our backyard.
"The moon, Aida," I said. "The moon is in the sky."
A little while later, I found her staring upward again, this time waving and smiling. I looked up. A plane pink with sunlight floated across the fading blue sky, so delightful to this child that it prompted her to wave.
"Airplane," I said.
"Daaaah," she said.
And with that, Aida discovered the sky.
She spied a lizard and stopped, then chased it until it disappeared.
She picked up leaves and crunched them between her fingers.
She started to eat a rock.
At one point, in surprise, she pointed at the sky and squealed. I turned from facing her to see what she saw. And there it was. A bright sliver of light shining over our backyard.
"The moon, Aida," I said. "The moon is in the sky."
A little while later, I found her staring upward again, this time waving and smiling. I looked up. A plane pink with sunlight floated across the fading blue sky, so delightful to this child that it prompted her to wave.
"Airplane," I said.
"Daaaah," she said.
And with that, Aida discovered the sky.
Friday, December 2, 2011
On turning one
Nov. 12, 2011
Dear Aida,
As I write this, the sun is shining, a cool wind blows and you are in your crib on your way into naptime. At least, I hope. I hear you babbling.
Today is your birthday. You are one year old. I tried not to throw you a party. I called it "very, very small" and named it "a picnic." It turned out to be a party anyway.
We went to the park and hung a dozen balloons. A 6-year-old helped me string a homemade pennant banner that flapped loudly in the wind. We made turkey and ham sub sandwiches (on French bread) and PB&Js. We served lemonade and handed out juice boxes. People brought beautiful gifts, though I told them not to. And children much bigger than you vied for your attention, taking turns pushing you in the baby swing.
When it seemed you were hungry, we sat you in your red travel high chair before a tiny cake made of carrots and honey and wheat flour. Though I tried to keep the ingredients Baby Aida-friendly, I compromised a bit on the frosting: cream cheese, butter and honey. Three things you've never had. You delightfully destroyed it, sitting contentedly in that chair for a good half-hour or more, smooshing the frosting with sticky fingers, sucking on a plastic spoon and smiling at some of your onlookers. I'm not sure you actually ate any, however.
I'm so proud of you, honey.
On this day last year, I was sleep-deprived but unable to sleep for the sight of you. You were a tiny bundle of blanket and wide eyes. Perfect skin. Buddah belly with a yellow, plastic clamp over your umbilical cord. Little fists that flew and elbows that unfolded then folded back. A mouth that yawned and puckered reflexively. You were our baby and we still had no idea exactly what that meant.
You've transformed us.
You've transformed.
Dear Aida,
As I write this, the sun is shining, a cool wind blows and you are in your crib on your way into naptime. At least, I hope. I hear you babbling.
Today is your birthday. You are one year old. I tried not to throw you a party. I called it "very, very small" and named it "a picnic." It turned out to be a party anyway.
We went to the park and hung a dozen balloons. A 6-year-old helped me string a homemade pennant banner that flapped loudly in the wind. We made turkey and ham sub sandwiches (on French bread) and PB&Js. We served lemonade and handed out juice boxes. People brought beautiful gifts, though I told them not to. And children much bigger than you vied for your attention, taking turns pushing you in the baby swing.
When it seemed you were hungry, we sat you in your red travel high chair before a tiny cake made of carrots and honey and wheat flour. Though I tried to keep the ingredients Baby Aida-friendly, I compromised a bit on the frosting: cream cheese, butter and honey. Three things you've never had. You delightfully destroyed it, sitting contentedly in that chair for a good half-hour or more, smooshing the frosting with sticky fingers, sucking on a plastic spoon and smiling at some of your onlookers. I'm not sure you actually ate any, however.
I'm so proud of you, honey.
On this day last year, I was sleep-deprived but unable to sleep for the sight of you. You were a tiny bundle of blanket and wide eyes. Perfect skin. Buddah belly with a yellow, plastic clamp over your umbilical cord. Little fists that flew and elbows that unfolded then folded back. A mouth that yawned and puckered reflexively. You were our baby and we still had no idea exactly what that meant.
You've transformed us.
You've transformed.
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