On Our Year of Firsts
Dearest Daughter,
In less than one week, you will be one year old. I have no idea how it happened. I know I was present with you throughout most of it. I know I held you, fed you, drew over 300 bubble baths for you. I comforted you when you were sick; I sang songs to you when I couldn’t think of lyrics (I apologize for the night I couldn’t think of anything else except “White Trash Heroes”); and I let you pull hair after hair out of head, as you intentionally and methodically made sure to yank each one, place it gently on the ground with the pile of other hairs, and then return to my head in a very diligent and logical manner (you get that from your father).
The first day you laughed was March 12. You rolled at 15 weeks. You ate solids for the first time on Memorial Day weekend (peas), and you hated them (you get that from me). You independently sat upright around 6 months. You pulled yourself up exactly at 10 months. On November 1, I walked in on you standing in your crib for the first time.
And it was then that I knew it: I want nothing but the best for you.
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