We got you a little tricycle. We called it your first bike, but it has three wheels, so nope, not really. It’s insanely cute though how you sit up straight and look around when I’m pushing you around in it, like you’re proud to be one of the big kids now. I know you’ve been wanting your own ride for a couple of months already, and I heard you were borrowing a neighboring kid’s tricycle when she wasn’t using it. Your father and your aunt showed me pictures that they took on separate occasions, of you looking at them and pointing at the borrowed tricycle you were riding in with a face sweetly, earnestly trying to communicate, ‘Look! I want one of these please.’
You say “Please” now, only you say it as “peas”. You also speak in much, much longer paragraphs, with matching intonation and facial expressions. We are convinced you think you’re already having conversations with us, and while you do speak so many words now, you’re not really making much sense yet. Cue endless toddler frustration. I have to try really hard not to laugh. It’s so funny when you furrow your brow in disapproval. You look so much like me.
You’re a cheeky baby, and you make me laugh. You light me up so much, I can feel it spread through me even just from hearing your voice calling me from the next room. I just want to kiss and smell you all the time, and watch you do silly things like hide behind your little chair. You still think that if you can’t see me, I can’t see you. You shriek and giggle with glee when I “find” you.
I love afternoons with you. You grab my phone, say “Dance” and wait for me to play some music. Then you dance your insanely funny dance moves, and I dance along with you, and for the next few minutes, all I hear and feel is our laughter, and an immense, overwhelming love for you, your father, and this little life that we have made for ourselves. It surrounds me, and I am filled with deep and boundless gratitude.