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My Sunny,

Last night you were fitful. You and I spent this week sick, and although your fever broke earlier in the week, you were tormented and uncomfortable in the wee hours of the morning. You knew just what you wanted, and that was to be rocked. I slung you over my shoulder and rock we did. Anytime I would slow the rocking to see if you had drifted back to sleep, you’d begin to squirm and protest with a very matter-of-fact, “No, mommy. Rock.”

So rock on we did.

My back ached from the weight of your now 30lb+ body, you coughed unabashedly into my face, you drooled and snotted generously on my shoulder, you kept me from my own slumber, and yet, the touch of your fingers gripping my arm, your face, like a puzzle piece, fitting perfectly into the crook of my neck, and your low  snore of content kept my body in motion.

That’s what parenthood is. That tension. That paradox. That conflicted emotion. It’s simultaneously complex and yet wonderfully simple being your mommy.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

It’s been a month of ever-developing make-believe and imagination. You’ve discovered an adoration of Legos and revel in building trains and boats and towers with your blocks. You especially love when Daddy makes you Lego thrones for your Elmo, primarily for the joy of playing Godzilla Sunny and destroying his creations.

The Legos have helped you better discern colors, which has intensified your love of the color blue. You see blue anything and want it. Immediately. You will now only wear your blue coat, and you want to hold your blue legos, and if you see anything in the grocery aisle with the shade of cerulean, lord knows it’s winding up in the cart.

It’s difficult to resist your demands, as they’ve become increasingly confident and assured. You have learned more and more how to advocate for your desires, and while it has enhanced communication, it has also opened the gate to disagreement. We can no longer easily trick you into doing what we want. There is more discussion, explanation, reasoning. And yet, you are still on the brink of toddlerdom, and thus the furthest thing from a rational being. I imagine that this is what life will feel like when you are 15 and revert back to behaving as a completely irrational creature. Only the demands will be for midriff clothing and unchaperoned vacations in Cancun rather than permanent markers and glass drinking cups.  Unfortunately, it won’t be so easy to simply hoist you into my arms and remove you from the situation.

But, girl, your mommy is 6 feet tall. So never underestimate my abilities in that regard.

Our trip to Florida this month was of great success, as you not only got to spend time with your grandparents and uncle, but you were exposed to a myriad of new critters and experiences, including a very soggy air boat ride that required special noise-canceling head gear. Of course, your most favorite activity involved swimming and learning the meaning of the term “cannon ball.” Oh how you loved nothing more than demanding that mommy and daddy “Cammom Baah!” It never got old, and your daddy and I relived a favorite childhood experience of leaping and splashing in the pool. Nor did we tire of your refusal to use the number 4 when you’d count us in for our jumps. It was either 1,2,3,5! or 1,2,3,5,8,9! But, hey! Counting! That’s progress in and of itself.

My favorite memory from the trip was the day that we took you to the beach. It was a breezy day, so we had the area to ourselves. Daddy and I plopped down on one of many empty sets of beach chairs while you raced around, picking up shovels, splashing in the water, running through the sand. You strayed further from us than is typical to explore holes, and shadows, and beach toys scattered around the area. I began to get nervous, having you that far from my immediate reach, but your daddy reassured me:

Let her go. Let her have this time. We’re right here if she needs us.

So on the beach we sat. Daddy and I, holding hands, basking in the light of our first-born as you explored your own world.

Happy 22 months, Sunshine.

143 Mama