A few weeks back our little one turned one year old. She tasted her first chocolate, and she expressed a strong preference for frosting over cake (unfortunately, the first recipe I’ve made to suffer from whole wheat flour). She’s got teeth, and we’re still happily nursing for most of her nutrition. She cruises and crawls and cuddles even with our cats and dog. The cats quickly learned that wherever LB was there was bound to be affection and games, and the dog is warming to her bit by bit.
I’ve discovered vast stores of energy and patience in myself, and cliched though it is, she blows my heart wide open with both her smile and strong will. My love for my husband has grown too; I get teary thinking about our sweet little family. Every time it feels like we’ve hit a groove, she throws us for a loop; she reminds us that each day is a blessing because who knows when you’ll get a good night of sleep. I don’t really have anything to add to the parenting conversation, but I can’t stop blathering on and on about her.