11 months

Dear Mila,

Today you are 11 months old. Deep breath, writing that sentence was just as hard as I imagined it would be.  

Every night for the last week, I’ve sat down after your brother and you were in bed and tried to order your first birthday invites. I’ve changed the pictures no less than 20 times.  The color combo has been adjusted every which way. I’ve changed the theme, the font, and the time of the party. I’ve poured over Pinterest recipes to serve,  browsed Etsy decorations to hang, and searched for the perfect cake to order on line. But, oh yeah, I still haven’t ordered the invites.   

Denial, it ain’t just a river in Egypt, baby.

I’m clearly having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that in one short month we will be celebrating your very first birthday. One year ago today I was uncomfortable and tired and really, really big. And you were in my tummy-uncomfortable and sleepy and really, really tiny. I’ve done this whole baby to toddler in a year thing before, so, one would think I would have known it was coming, but nope. Snuck up on me again.

How is it even remotely possible that this:

Has turned into this:

ALREADY.

Mimi, I promise that I will order your invites this week. And I will throw you the best first birthday party on the block. There will be cake for you to eat with your Auntie Valerie and music for you to shake your booty to with Tyson. There will be presents and balloons and crackers and bananas. I promise it will be great. And, even though I can’t possibly think of it, I will throw a damn good second birthday too. And third and fourth.  And on and on. I promise.

In return, can you promise me something? Just one little thing-promise to be my little girl forever. Oh sure, I know you will grow. You’ll get big. You’ll stop drinking out of a bottle. You won’t want me to rock you back to sleep. You’ll walk and feed yourself.  You’ll run. You’ll run away from me. You’ll be able to tell me what you want and what you don’t want. You stop wanting to be carried. You’ll start going to the bathroom in the potty. You’ll go to Kindergarten. You’ll meet a new best friend.  You’ll have play dates. You’ll swim or dance or do gymnastics. You’ll fight with your brother. You’ll fight with your Daddy and me. You’ll have a new best friend. You’ll get grounded. You’ll drive. You’ll get a boyfriend and another boyfriend and another boyfriend. You’ll go to school dances in pretty dresses. You’ll go away to college. You’ll get married. You’ll have your own baby.

But through it all? Please, please promise you’ll be my little girl. My little girl who I can hug and whisper I love you to. My little girl who will look for her Mommy when she is sad. My little girl who will hug and kiss without abandon. My little girl who’s smile can light up my room. My little girl who is independent and determined and funny and cute and smart.  

Because that promise? It will help me through this whole getting older thing. I need it.

I love you Mimi.

Happy 11 months,

Mommy