Fourteen months already?!

Dear boy,

You may be fourteen months old as of today, and therefore a big boy, but you still sleep like a baby -- with your tushie in the air. Exhibit A:

Instead of chalking up your milestones and such this month, I just wanted to share some pictures. I think they tell the story better than I could. So, Exhibit B is all about your love of books. You LOVE books, kiddo -- more than I could ever have dreamed you would. They are your number-one-favorite thing to drag out and play with. Yay! In fact, you would be happy to have us read to you all day long. The thing about that is, um -- how can I say this delicately? WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME OR PATIENCE TO DO IT FOR HOURS. Sorry. I never thought I'd say that I was tired of reading to you -- and maybe I'm not tired of reading to YOU, but just tired of reading these particular books that we have, so many times each day. (Yeah. That's it.) I can recite "Pat the Bunny," "Ten Little Ladybugs," "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" and about a dozen others now from memory. While you find it charming during car rides, I don't think this is a life skill that will serve me well in any arena but stay-at-home motherhood. Without further ado, then, Exhibit B:

One of the most delightful things that's happened over the last month is that you have deemed it acceptable to cuddle with both your parents. Up until now, cuddling was reserved for your mother only, and even then the rare occurrences smacked of being largely accidental, like in the middle of the night when your head would droop onto my shoulder and you just were too sleepy to move it. Now, however, you've decided that we're worthy of your physical demonstrations of affection. And it makes your daddy SO happy. Exhibit C:

It's actually a really good thing that you've learned to be so snuggly, baby-kins, because honestly? I think you've been in need of the charm points since SEPARATION ANXIETY set in with a vengeance. I've taken to calling you a velcro baby this month, since even my short trips to the restroom cause you to protest vociferously. One such exclamation might sound like this, if you were to use words instead of screaming: "MOM! YOU ARE KILLING ME WITH THE PEEING! HOW CAN YOU NOT SENSE MY UTTER DESOLATION OUT HERE WHILE ... Oh, you're back. Read me this book?" Common sense and logic (and all the baby books) tell me that though it's a frustrating time for all of us, it should be just one more thing to celebrate, since your attachment to me and your dad means that our hard work at earning your trust has paid off, and you'd rather be in our company where you know you're safe, than without us. Intellectually, I get that. Emotionally, I'd like to pull my hair out. But of course it doesn't mean that I love you any less, son -- despite these challenges, you are more than ever my delicious cuddle bug, and you are still at high risk of me eating you up out of the need to consume you, because I love you so much.

This month, we blew bubbles for you for the first time. (What kind of parents are we that we never did this for you before?! Someone call Child Protective Services.) And, um, you kind of liked them. Exhibits D-H:

Finally, it had to happen, and we bit the bullet last weekend and took you for your first-ever haircut. As evidenced by the bubble pictures above, your hair (though soft and silky and adorable) was a little out of control. Last weekend, we headed to a place called "Snip-its" that specializes in kids' cuts, since we knew we'd need some professional assistance in distracting you during the trim. Your stylist was fast and kind, two tremendously important skills in her line of work. And all in all, you did better than we expected -- you only fussed for a minute, until the stylist pointed out a bottle of bubble solution on the counter and I got to work blowing some bubbles your way. Those people are geniuses. Exhibits I-M:

I love the lean you're doing in this one.

My shorn sheep. (Sniff.)

You are definitely rocking your new 'do, my boy. And that's the thing -- this haircut makes you look very much like a little boy now, and not a baby anymore. That's hard for me, son, so I hope you'll forgive me on those days when I look at you and get misty (or downright snortily-weepy, if I'm truthful about it). As I look back on this letter, I feel like I've been recounting more thorns of the last month than blooms, but the truth of it is that every day with you is a veritable garden of roses -- sweet and lovely and soft and dreamy. The thorns are few and far between, baby boy, and I am, as always, burstingly proud of the chatty, mobile, clever and loving child you are.

I love you,

mommy.