In my role of Mama, it increasingly becomes apparent to me that I haven't reached a beautiful apex of martyrdom and joy and peace where sh-t rolls off my shoulders like I’m wearing a gigantic parchment paper tunic. I'm 20 months in. Here's hoping I am close.
Stella. 20 months old. Keeping track of those months is math. That thing my brain has a very hard time with. When people ask how old she is, instead of saying “47” because I love sarcasm so much I should have married it, I say “she’ll be 2 in September.”
I realized yesterday that she was exactly 20 months. I can’t tell you in definable terms what the last 20 months mean to me or all the people she loves.
I can tell you when I put Orajel in her mouth last night, in the 3 or 4 little gummy holes where teeth are still struggling to split through, she bit my finger so hard I will probably lose the nail. Ask me how much I loved her in that second.
Right now if she was filling out her Facebook profile, her favourite things would include Pocky, anything Daddy is trying to quietly look at, eat or watch, shoes, hats, dinosaur books, dancing, Elmo and police car sirens.
Her Dislikes include having her bum changed, the sound of a vacuum cleaner and when Mama picks that long terrible booger out of her nostril. (Ask Mama how much she loves doing it. Just wait until she’s done dry heaving into a lavender scented handkerchief.)
If Stella ran for President there would be no protein on the dinner plate, Elmo would be the VP and every playground would have 12 slides.
Happy 20 months, you gorgeous piranha.