I know I start the majority of my birthday letters to you with a statement about how I can't believe it's possible that you are already ___ months old. But, really? I can't believe it's possible that you are 18 months old. My baby is 18 months old! A whole year and a half! STOP IT.
For the record, yes, I will still call you my baby when you are 18 YEARS old too.
I recently refinished a baby cradle and highchair for you to play with. It was labor of love that included 5 hours of painting, a whole gallon of paint and repetitive cursing to myself about how horrible I am with a paintbrush. The end result was this:
Without the photo editing, you'd clearly see several paint drips, a few remaining white patches, uneven strokes and a few grass blades dried in for good measure. Luckily for me, your babies are ok with the shabby chic look (emphasis on the shabby).
I've sat and watched you and your brother play with your babies for countless hours since I finished the project. You feed your baby whatever snacks you have. You give your baby your lovies if they need a nap. You cover her with a blanket before bed. Hold her up to the window and show her birdies, leaves, flowers, and cars. You kiss her, talk to her, "sing" to her (you can totally rock the "A-B" part of the ABCs, also, you yell out "Blurred Lines" at random when looking for attention) and hug her.
As I watched you with them, I realized that I've clearly done something right-and it wasn't the paint job. At 18 months, you are as obsessed with those babies as I am with mine. Someday, years from now (if it's not years from now-you and Daddy will have one heck of a heated discussion), you are going to make an amazing Mommy.
And, even then, you'll still be my baby.
Happy 18 month birthday, cutie.