I love 18-month-old Natalie.
I won't say it's my favorite stage because that makes me feel weirdly unfaithful to every other stage of Natalie that I have loved, but I will say that I love hearing her talk and sing and tell me stories. It is awesome to know more about what she is thinking.
Lately she's been calling me "honey."
I will say something like, "Okay, let's go outside, honey."
And she'll say, "Okay, honey."
And she'll grab my hand and say, "Le's go ow-side," like it was her idea first.
She is very tricky to get a picture of, because when she sees the camera pointed her way she runs over and asks to "'Old it? 'Old it? 'Old it. Peeese. Peeese 'old it, Mommy. 'Old it."
"Mommy. 'Old it."
I have been able to sneak a couple videos, though, which is a great relief to me, because I often lament not having had recorded enough of our time together.
This one is Natalie read/ singing one of her favorite books:
And this one is us cleaning the basement:
It is bonkers how time moves these days. I have heard people say that a million times, I have probably said it too much myself, but it is so crazy true that an unpleasant 20-minutes can feel like a lifetime, and a month can feel like a blink. It makes me want to shout, "Unfair!" and shake my fist at the heavens, but at the same time, I like moving forward. I wouldn't want to stay the same forever. Gah. I am caught between the life-drive and death-drive, digging my heels in to slow things down every chance I get, and yet wanting to fast forward to nap times and bed times and reunions and vacations.
When Natalie was a tiny baby, I would get these sweeping waves of sadness every so often at how brief everything is. Jason would come home from work to find me cuddling our sleeping child with bright red circles around my eyes, whisper singing, "Slipping Through My Fingers."
Yikes.
But then later that same night, while I counted to a billion in my head and tried not to focus on my sore everything as I bounced our baby, I would hiss through the darkness of our bedroom, "This is the longest night of my life!"
I wish I could keep it all. I wish I could remember it all. Even the bad stuff. It seems like this exquisitely sad and beautiful thing to have suffered a little because you love someone.
I won't say it's my favorite stage because that makes me feel weirdly unfaithful to every other stage of Natalie that I have loved, but I will say that I love hearing her talk and sing and tell me stories. It is awesome to know more about what she is thinking.
Lately she's been calling me "honey."
I will say something like, "Okay, let's go outside, honey."
And she'll say, "Okay, honey."
And she'll grab my hand and say, "Le's go ow-side," like it was her idea first.
She is very tricky to get a picture of, because when she sees the camera pointed her way she runs over and asks to "'Old it? 'Old it? 'Old it. Peeese. Peeese 'old it, Mommy. 'Old it."
"Mommy. 'Old it."
I have been able to sneak a couple videos, though, which is a great relief to me, because I often lament not having had recorded enough of our time together.
This one is Natalie read/ singing one of her favorite books:
And this one is us cleaning the basement:
It is bonkers how time moves these days. I have heard people say that a million times, I have probably said it too much myself, but it is so crazy true that an unpleasant 20-minutes can feel like a lifetime, and a month can feel like a blink. It makes me want to shout, "Unfair!" and shake my fist at the heavens, but at the same time, I like moving forward. I wouldn't want to stay the same forever. Gah. I am caught between the life-drive and death-drive, digging my heels in to slow things down every chance I get, and yet wanting to fast forward to nap times and bed times and reunions and vacations.
When Natalie was a tiny baby, I would get these sweeping waves of sadness every so often at how brief everything is. Jason would come home from work to find me cuddling our sleeping child with bright red circles around my eyes, whisper singing, "Slipping Through My Fingers."
Yikes.
But then later that same night, while I counted to a billion in my head and tried not to focus on my sore everything as I bounced our baby, I would hiss through the darkness of our bedroom, "This is the longest night of my life!"
I wish I could keep it all. I wish I could remember it all. Even the bad stuff. It seems like this exquisitely sad and beautiful thing to have suffered a little because you love someone.
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