The Cupcake Saga

Dear Sammie Girl,

Last week, your mama was a slacker. Or a rebel. Whichever way you want to look at it, for the first time since your birth…I skipped a weekly post.

To be honest, I did sit down at the computer last Thursday to figure out something to write: maybe I should write about how you’re signing “more” like crazy whenever you want a little snack or nibble, perhaps how you’re enjoying the pool more, or maybe about the insane amount of teeth that have made their appearances in your mouth these past two weeks (total at the moment: eight and counting)…but the words just weren’t coming to me. So, I shut down the computer and got down on the floor to play with you instead.

Fortunately, I can make up for being speechless last week with tons of pictures this week.

We took you in last week for your final installment of the ‘Baby’s First Year’ photo package we bought when you were just a few weeks old. You started off strong, wearing the “Sammie” onesie and rockin’ the zebra hair bows that my hairdresser Tracey made for you.

These pictures melt my heart—I just want to reach through the computer screen and pinch your not so little cheeks!

Then, it was time to go outside and get some family portraits done. We did the same poses that we did a year ago so we could see how much you’ve changed over the past year:

...last year's shot (for reference)


…and we FINALLY got a beautiful family picture where all three of us are looking pretty good. This is what’s on my computer desktop now. Every time I boot up I can’t help but smile at your smiling face:





Then it was cupcake time. Before I can show you the results, you must know the chaos that went into the preparation of getting these last set of pictures.

It started a few months ago, when we took you in to get your nine month pictures. The photographer casually told me how it was so cute when another mom brought in white boxes and balloons and a colorful cupcake for her daughter’s first birthday pictures. I liked that idea and told her we’d do the same thing when it came time for your first birthday pictures.

Fast forward three months, and it’s the night before your photo session. Your mama is wiped from teaching the first day of summer school and we were celebrating your Grandpa Mike’s birthday at a restaurant. Halfway through my steak, it dawned on me: the packages. And balloons. And a cupcake. The pictures were TOMORROW, and I’d prepared absolutely nothing. To make matters worse, we had to leave RIGHT AFTER summer school in order to make the photo session in time.

*Insert one tired mama staying up until midnight wrapping boxes in white butcher paper and silently getting upset at myself for being too cheap to buy actual white wrapping paper because dangit if the butcher paper didn’t keep ripping here*

The next morning, while my students were working silently, I emailed the photographer and begged for a later slot—which fortunately, she was able to do. Then I texted your dad and asked him to go to Costco to get a pink or purple cupcake for the pictures—and wouldn’t you know it if Costco can’t make individual cupcakes. They also can’t do different colored frosting without a day’s notice. So he came home with twenty of the biggest white and chocolate cupcakes I’d ever seen.

I became a one woman tornado after school, running to FOUR different stores in an attempt to get white shirts for your dad and me and white balloons filled with helium. I found the shirts with relative ease, but the helium—which I thought would be an easy task—was another story. Both dollar stores had run out of white mylar balloons the week before (stupid graduation parties), and their rules prevented them from being able to blow up the white latex balloons I’d bought at Target.

*Insert one frantic mama kicking herself for not ponying up the bucks to get the balloons filled at the overpriced party store that was in the same parking lot as the place I’d bought the shirts*

Finally, I struck gold: the drug store by our house agreed to fill the balloons, for pretty cheap (score!). When I realized that we’d need weights to keep the little suckers from flying all over the car, I was informed that the weights would double the price. When all was said and done, I would’ve been better off just buying their balloons instead of bringing my own. Grrr—and previous point removed.

So, that brings us to the cupcake pictures. The ones I’d been thinking about for the past three months, figuring out exactly how we’d carry it out. I pictured you covered in frosting and smiling at the camera with white boxes and balloons behind you.

I forgot to take into account that you’re all business when it comes to your food, and you don’t slow down for anything, let alone stopping long enough to smile at a camera:





Silly mama.

…oh, yeah, and you were eating it a little too neatly for my taste, so I eventually just picked up the cupcake and smashed it into your face so you’d get the frosting all over.





And did I mention that you don’t like food taken away from you? This was after we’d taken the bulk of the cupcake away. You were…um…a little displeased with us.



*Insert awkward transition here*

Father’s Day was this past Sunday, and we celebrated it in two parts over the weekend. Your dad wanted three things for father’s day: to go to the Pop Laval Gallery, get some frozen yogurt, and buy a shop vac.

We got a late start, though, so by the time we’d eaten dinner and spent what seemed like years at the various home improvement stores, the only thing he managed to get was the shop vac. And a very tired and cranky baby.

Sunday, we spent the morning at your Aunt Beth and Uncle Tom’s house eating waffles and white sauce (your dad’s favorite) and the afternoon napping. We headed over to Nonni and Poppa’s house for an epic barbeque with Fresno State corn.

You and Ben gave Poppa your father’s day gift:




Here's a close up of you holding one of the letters:

He loved it for the pictures of his grandkids, and loved it even more when we pointed out that you guys had spelled out Poppa.

Score two for Sammie and Ben!

Loving you lots,
your mama

PS Your dad's been hard at work redoing our front yard, and the other day he had me take pictures of the new tree he'd bought. I think it'll be fun to watch you and the tree get bigger!

The Numbers Are In!

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Last month, I would've sworn that you hit a major growth spurt. You were growing out of your 12 month clothes faster than I could say "pass the Cheerios, please" and my poor old back was having a harder time holding you for extended periods of time (see the Cheerios comment above). The change was so noticeable that I halfway expected you to have gained six inches and fifty pounds in the last three months.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

They weighed and measured you at your doctor's appointment yesterday; you're now nearly 23 pounds and 29 inches tall. As in, you've grown a measely inch and a half and have gained nearly a pound and a half in the past three months. Um...say what? How is it then that your onesies (that were loose in March) are now threatening to become tube tops?

Your father and I don't get it. We demand a recount. I'll keep you posted on what shall heretoafter be known as "measurement-gate"

In other news, last month's cold is now fully explained: teeth. Or, to be more specific, FOUR teeth. You've got two new teeth peeking through on the top of your mouth, and two more that are threatening to break through anyminutenow. The ones that are already showing aren't the typical ones in the middle--they're the ones on the other side of the middle teeth. It makes you look like a Vampire. But a cute vampire, if such a thing exists.

Lastly, and I am so excited to finally be able to post this, you're finally pulling yourself up. To be honest, I was a little worried. You were following every other milestone to the letter in terms of when "most" babies do various things: sitting up at six months? Check. Crawling by nine months? Check. Pulling up by ten months? Um...well, see...not quite.

Then you pulled yourself up on the makeshift drums I've made you with my kitchen bowls. And again on the tub when you were hanging out with me in the bathroom whilst I shaved my legs. And again in the crib when you disagreed with your naptime.

So pulling up is now "check, check and triple check!"

I'd ask when you're planning on walking, but I'm fully aware that when you start walking you're going to segue right into running--and Mama doesn't run. Ever. So, I'm not exactly anxious for the "running after baby because she's taken off yet again" milestone.

Be kind to your mama. Don't make me run too much--please?

Loving you like crazy,

your mama

Eeek, Oy, Aack

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Whatever happened to the baby who just a few months ago was content to sit on her blanket and play with whatever toys were in front of her?

I’ll tell you what happened—you turned ONE.

Almost overnight, you decided that (1) creeping was for little babies and crawling was definitely the way to go, (2) if you crawl at warp speed you can get wherever you want to go before we have the chance to stop you (3) you inevitably want to be wherever we DON’T want you to be, and (4) if you get to where we don’t want you to be by crawling at warp speed, it’s most fun to attempt to shut the door on your parents before they can remove you from the off-limits location.

Eish.

Exhibit A: Mamma tries desperately to keep you out of the laundry room. The laundry room, dear Sammie, is the gateway to the garage, and therefore is the most heavily trafficked area in the house. This is the room that double’s as the dogs’ room because it’s where they go whenever we’re not home. This is also the room that has the floor that hasn’t been properly cleaned in months (Maybe even since you were born—it’s got that lovely earth tone color that hides a myriad of sins). Unfortunately, this is where the dogs’ water is kept, and you’ve decided that water in a blue feeder is the BEST THING EVER and therefore make a beeline to it whenever the door’s open. You compound on your fun by attempting to shut the door on me before I can get you out.

I say attempting because you haven’t yet figured out how to remove yourself from the door’s path to fully shut it, so instead you just keep shutting it on your legs or whatever random body part is in the way.

Oy.

Exhibit B: Mamma tries to cook dinner, and sets up a makeshift xylophone in the living room using her stainless steel bowls. You’re most interested in banging away at them…until you see me venture into the kitchen to get dinner prep underway. Then all bets are off because you turbo crawl yourself to the kitchen rug and start grunting away and signing bottle.

Did I mention you figured out how to sign “Bottle?” Before, you’d just sign it when you saw it. Now you think that we’re a 24/7 bottle restaurant and place your order (6 ounces, stirred not shaken, you’ll take your order to go) quite regularly. Seeing as how we’re currently trying to wean you from the bottle, this is not good. On the one hand, I want you to grasp the concept of signing to me to ease your frustrations, but on the other I can’t give in every time you ask for a bottle—if you had your way you’d never stop chugging the stuff! We’re able to avoid World War Three by signing “water” instead and giving you your sippy cup of water. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Ack.

This past weekend brought about a treasure trove of new memories and milestones. On Sunday, we went to pick cherries at a local farm (note to self: keep a close eye on you while snapping pictures; you kept grabbing the little buggers off of the tree and stuffing them in your mouth):


On Monday, we used our annual passes to go to the zoo with Nonni (I think the monkeys were your favorite—they kept grunting and doing monkey-speak so you felt right at home, even grunting and bouncing back). I am going to have to break down and learn the real names of the different species in the zoo. I could feel the other mammas glaring at me when I referred to seven different species of primates as a “monkey” each time when it clearly was not a monkey but a red haired Orangutan originating from Southeastern India. Hey, you’re a year old. You don’t know any better.

We capped off the perfect weekend by dressing you up lady bug style and taking you swimming for the first time. You couldn’t wait to go at first:


…but once you got there, you weren’t sure what the fuss was about.


Methinks I’ll actually brave swimsuit season this weekend and put on a suit to “swim” alongside you in the 18 inch kiddie pool.

In the midst of all of the cherry picking, monkey grunting and ladybug swimming, you found your pandora’s box of devleopment. The more fun discoveries included blowing kisses, giving kisses, and crawling to your Elmo balloon when we ask where Elmo is. I’m particularly fond of taking advantage of your understanding how to “cuddle” by asking you to cuddle with whatever you’re holding—whether it be Elmo, a toy or my sock (hey, you were going through the clean laundry in the basket and it seemed appropriate at the time).

If this is what the approaching summer break is going to be like, then sign me up!

love you, my bottle signing, turbo crawling, cherry stealing, monkey watching. ladybug swimmer!

Your mama

Recap: First Birthday BBQ Shindig

Dear Sammie Joy,

We did it. We survived a year. You turned one last Friday without a whole lot of fanfare (save for your mama waking you up singing happy birthday and standing over your crib with a balloon and your dad surprising you with a rocking horse in the living room).


There wasn’t a whole lot of hooplah on your actual birthday because we were saving it for Saturday—the day of THE big party.

Only it almost wasn’t.

We planned to have the whole Sesame Street-themed BBQ shindig at the park by Nonni and Poppa’s house. It was the perfect location, and we’d scouted it out many times before. It had a beautiful enclosed picnic area, plenty of BBQs and eight picnic tables—just the right amount for the number of people we were expecting. We’d be able to focus Saturday morning decorating the area (decorations, cake and favors were my jurisdictions) and it was going to be perfect.

The only ‘catch’ in the plan was that the park couldn’t be reserved. Not a problem, we figured—we’d only seen it in use ONCE in the six months we’d spent stalking the place.

Then the weather started to not cooperate. The weatherman continued to give me bad news as the week progressed: what originally was predicted to be 78 degree spring weather turned into 63 degrees and windy. Wind is not good when you’ve got a massive butter cream frosting cake that’s set to be the party’s centerpiece. Figuring most people don’t want lemon cake with a side of gnats and dirt, I reluctantly decided to assemble the cake toward the end of the party, take a few pictures, and start cutting it before it got too bug infested.

Then the bad news turned worse when Poppa walked down to the park that morning to be first in line to use the picnic area.

There were two other parties already waiting for their turn in the same area. One had gotten there at four in the morning, the other had been there since midnight.

This. Was. NOT. Good.

After a having a slight panic attack and seeing visions of the perfectly planned first birthday party fly out the window, I went into decision mode and went for the never-before discussed Plan B: having it in Nonni & Poppa’s backyard.

Three hours and massive amounts of texts to the party guests later, I was running around like a madwoman trying desperately to straighten up, assemble goody bags and find places to put crepe paper (note: that crinkly stuff is great for outdoor picnic areas, not so great for a formal living room). Sidenote: your Nonni & Auntie Ashlea deserve gold medals for coming through in the biggest way to ensure that your party went on without a hitch.

Fortunately, the most important thing—the one thing I’d hoped for and planned for the party—was that you were miraculously able to get a two hour nap in before the party. I don’t know how you did it, but I was most grateful because I wanted you to be smiling and happy for your big day. Baby + sleep = happy, right?

Except for the part of the equation that I’d overlooked while trying to get everything JUST so (like suddenly deciding that the utensils HAD to be bound together with a napkin and curly ribbon—really? Just before the party? What was I thinking?). I’d forgotten that Baby Baby + sleep – food =grumpy.

Cue the crying baby for the first half hour of her big event.

After a quick and thoughtful prayer from your Uncle Grant, I was finally able to sit down with you and give you food. You must’ve been hungry because you gave us a preview of what was to come later on with the cake by alternating hands and shoveling the rice and hot dog bits into your mouth. Your Uncle Grant stood by, mouth ajar, not able to believe how quickly you were able to wolf down your food and still grunt for more.

Then the watermelon came out. Two weeks ago, you loved watermelon, so I bought several for the party so it wasn’t one solid carbohydrate fest. Then you decided last week that you wanted nothing to do with the sweet summer fruit. Apparently, on Saturday, you liked it again, because as your father held you and visited with the Pat side of the family, you proceeded do scarf down three massive chunks of the stuff. And you weren’t pleased when it was taken away.

Cue the time for cake.




The cake, I’ll be honest, I was rather proud of. Your Auntie Tamara and I spent the better part of Thursday evening constructing the four tiered “Old School Abstract Sesame Street” cake that I had dreamed up months before. Despite making a minor boo boo with Big Bird’s nest (who knew that the haystack candy had to be made with already cooked chow mein noodles?), it was delicious. And pretty to look at, too:



In the days leading up to the party, I had an epiphany of sorts: giving you the six inch Elmo cake to eat was not a good idea because your past behavior has indicated that you don’t like having food taken away prematurely. I decided to make Elmo gluten free for some of daddy’s family members, and settled for making a large cupcake for you to gobble down in celebration of the big event.

You started with a nibble of frosting.


Then you ate ALL of the frosting.


Then you started in on the cake.


Sammie, it was like a sporting event. The guests crowded around and cheered you on as you ate handfuls of cake, barely coming up for air.


In fact, you ate it so quickly that your dad started taking it away because he feared you’d choke. On cake.

Who chokes on cake? We discussed the situation and he finally agreed to let me put the cupcake in front of you again.

Game on.

One minute later, that cupcake was a goner and you were covered in a mixture of chocolate crumbs and vanilla frosting.


"Operation Cupcake" was a success.

While the guests noshed on cake—which was amazing thanks to Auntie Tamara’s mad baking skills (and I should know because I had the leftovers for lunch and dinner for three days straight this week)—we moved on to the opening of the gifts.

I’ve never seen a baby do this before on their first birthday, but you took an interest in each and every thing I pulled out of the gift bags, and took time to play with each toy and article of clothing that came your way, much to the delight of the guests in Nonni and Poppa’s living room.



An hour later, the party over, the two of us schlepped over to the park with Melissa and her family. It’s a good thing we went with Plan B for your party—there were an insane amount of people (and a bounce house! Why didn’t I think of a bounce house?) in the picnic area.

Bounce house envy aside, it was here in the quiet moments of the park that it dawned on me just how lucky I was to be a mom to such an amazing little girl. While Melissa was off to chase down her little daredevils on the playground, you decided that I was your jungle gym of sorts: you crawled all over me and shook with excitement when I tickled your (very full) belly.

Yes, my darling Sammie—you may have turned one, but I got the good gift: a sticky, happy, and LOUD baby girl :-)

All my love,
your mama

One Year Old. Gulp.

Dearest Sammie Girl,

It’s amazing how much things can change in a year. You’ve made sure of that. You gave your father and I the title of “mom” and “dad” and we couldn’t be prouder. Thank you, Sammie girl, for making me a mom. We may have thought that our lives were full of blessings before you came along, but we hadn’t seen anything yet. You’re the blessing and joy that brings a smile to our faces 24/7.

Tomorrow at 12:02 AM, you turn the big zero one. As in, you’ll be one YEAR old.

A year ago tomorrow, we were listing your age in hours. Then we were stating it in days. Days gave way for weeks, and when weeks became too confusing to count we moved onto months.

Now, darling girl, we’ll be counting your age in YEARS. Gulp.

A year ago today, your birth mom went to the hospital to be induced because you were already a week past your due date. We packed up the car and drove the few hours to Modesto, a combination of anxiety, excitement and anticipation.



As you know, our patience was tested that day as you took your sweet time to make your debut. The four of us waited on pins and needles in the hotel room, only to find out from the social worker that you probably wouldn’t be born for at least another day or so.

Nuts. I tried to ease my disappointment by going on a date with your father to the mini golf place across the street from the hotel. I won—and I NEVER beat your father. Go figure.

I went to sleep that night heartbroken, because I was so ready for you to be here and my lack of patience was getting the better of me.

An hour after drifting off, your father got the phone call that would change our lives forever. He woke me up to tell me “the baby’s coming.”

That moment held the excitement of Christmas morning—times a hundred million. I managed to type up the conversation on the blog (don’t ask me why I did that—in retrospect I know that I wanted to write it down so I’d remember it forever. Buts seriously? Why did I feel the need to do it at that very moment?).

Ten minutes later, we were on our way to the hospital and making a pit stop at Taco Bell’s drive thru (Your father HAD to have a taco at that very minute. It was his own “Seriously?” moment).

Less than an hour later, I was in the hospital room, holding a tightly wrapped and VERY alert little girl named Emily.



Fifteen minutes later, I was holding the same baby, but her name was Samantha Joy.

“We’ll call her Sammie,” I told your father and Nonni.

“Sammie’s a boy’s name,” your father replied.

“Not when you spell it with an ‘ie’ at the end instead of a ‘y’.”

“I’m not going to call her Sammie. Her name is SAMANTHA.”

I can’t help but smile as I write this, because your father’s the one who calls you Sammie more than anyone. I’ll stick a “Samantha” in every now and then (usually when introducing you to someone for the first time), but I don’t think I’ve EVER heard your dad call you anything but “Sammie.”

Looking back, you soooo are a Sammie and you soooo are not an Emily. Emily’s are demure and quiet and dainty. Sammie’s have spunk. They say it like it is. And they’re gosh darned adorable.

And that, my darling Sammie, is exactly what you are: spunky, loud and ADORABLE to the umpteenth degree.

Those days and hours leading up to your birth may have been a frenzy of nervous energy, but they were nothing compared to the excitement we’ve faced over the past year in watching you grow from silent newborn into the sweet and determined little girl you are today.

This past year has been a series of firsts: first smile, first laugh, first time sitting up, first time creeping, first time crawling…

I can only imagine what milestones the next years will hold.

Gulp.

If this were a 1990s sitcom, this post would be my cue to sit with the rest of the family in the well-lit living room, cheesy music playing in the background as I recount my favorite mommy moments of the year while clips of past “episodes” of your life played onscreen. On sitcoms, they did flashback episodes because the writers/actors/producers were too lazy to come up with a new plot. In this blog, however, it’s because as your mom I just want to wax sentimental for a moment and reflect on the joy of this past year before the clock runs out on your babyhood in just a few hours.

*cue cheesy music*

My favorite mommy moments of this past year include holding you and reading, singing and talking to you that first night in the hospital’s conference room/storage room. I loved those first few months of last summer, when it was the two of us going anywhere and everywhere. Giving you your first Taco Bell burrito and seeing you creep around the room a few hours later was a particularly cool moment. Stumbling into the laundry room with you on my hip and hearing you point to Maynerd and exclaim “DOG!” (your first word) was absolutely awesome. Seeing you crawl perfectly across the room to me on Mother’s Day was just plain awe-inspiring.

My absolute most favorite mommy moment, however, are the low key ones. I will always treasure the memories of sitting with you in your darkened room as you slept on my chest, fist curled tightly around your Robey (POFFKAMR). The room was quiet, save for the deep breaths of your sleep and the piano sound of Mike Strickland playing “Sunrise, Sunset” on the ipod. We’ve played the same soothing tunes for you every night since you were born, but those nights as I held you, the lyrics of that song were never far from my mind:

is this the little girl i carried,
is this the little boy at play?

i don't remember growing older,
when did they?

when did she get to be a beauty,
when did he grow to be so tall?

wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

sunrise, sunset,
sunrise, sunset
swiftly flow the days.

seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers,
blossoming even as we gaze.

sunrise, sunset
sunrise, sunset
swiftly fly the years,
one season following another,
laden with happiness and tears.

what words of wisdom can i give them,
how can i help to ease their way?




Loving you, my Sammie girl—past, present and future,

your mommy

PS. This is post number 100--pretty cool the way that worked out, eh?

Dearest Sammie Joy,

You are, without a doubt, MY daughter: a drama queen with a penchant for demanding the attention of the audience, no matter where you are.

Last Sunday, your stage of choice was the living room at Nonni and Poppa’s house. It was Mother’s Day (my very first one, thank you very much—more on that to come later), and the whole Willis side of the family was there to celebrate. We’d already had our fill of corn burritos, and we were sitting in the living room chatting it up while you played with your toys on the floor.

Suddenly, you looked at me with an anxious look on your face and started “talking” to me. Loudly. I mean, you could give my drama students a lesson or two on how to project your voice. All eyes turned on us as we had this conversation:

You: Yeah!
Mommy: Yeah?
You: Yeah, YEAH!
Mommy: Yeah? Yeah?
You: Yeah, blah blah YEAH!!!

Then, without warning, you stopped yelling and graduated from creeping to crawling as you crawled to me from across the room. Perfectly. On your first time. Your stomach never touched the floor. With an audience.

I can’t imagine a more perfect Mother’s Day present.

The two of us just after our Mother's Day brunch with the Vogt side. My shirt says "Sammie's Mom:"

...and again at Nonni & Poppa's backyard for Mother's Day with the Pullen side:

Love you, daughter!

your mommy

PS. As you might have guessed from the above conversation, your favorite word is “yeah.” You use it a lot. You use it if we leave the room. You use it to talk to us. You use it to express your joy over whatever toy you’re playing with. You use it to interrupt our phone conversations. Yeah.

PPS. Your dad and I enjoyed a rare date night last Saturday when we chaperoned Central's prom. You didn't go (you had a date with Auntie Beth instead), but we did snag a prom picture first:

My Daughter, the 1980s Rock Star

Dearest Sammie Girl,

Last Friday, I simply could NOT take it anymore. I’ve spent the last month and a half trying to ignore it, trying to hold off for just a few more months—until I couldn’t anymore: it was time. Time to get your hair cut for the very first time.



A few hours after making the appointment (and after waiting a little while longer for Nonni to get there so she could take pictures of the momentous occasion), we were sitting in the chair in my hair dresser’s garage salon. The plan was simple: I’d hold you in my lap while Tracey combed and snipped away at the locks that had been growing since you were born. I didn’t want her to cut a whole lot, just trim up the bangs so they weren’t in your face anymore and take a little off the side to even it up a bit. Simple, right?

Yeah, right.

Ha, ha.

You squirmed, cried, twisted your head and tried to stand up.








As I held you, Tracey bravely wielded the scissors and snipped away, cutting randomly whenever you stopped wiggling for two seconds. She must be a hairstyling ninja, because now that all is said and done, you’ve got perfectly straight bangs and pigtails that are relatively even.





Monday night, you got to debut your new hairstyle at the restaurant when your daddy’s family took me out to dinner the night before my birthday. I don’t know where you put it all, but you started eating from the moment you sat down—and didn’t stop until we took the last bite of pizookie and ice cream.




Realizing that your meal ticket was about to come to an end, you opened your mouth wide, took a deep breath, and let out a scream that popped a few circuits in my hearing aids. I spent the remaining part of the evening keeping you placated on the benches outside.


On a completely random note, it dawned on me that, aside from the pictures above, I haven’t been taking very many pictures of you this month. This is a problem, because I’ve been putting together monthly photo collages of you to display at your epic Sesame Street birthday. Heaven forbid I should only get eleven out of the twelve collages complete! So I’ve spent the last few days taking pictures of you whenever possible.

This is what I got last night, just before putting you down for bed:

Showing me how you open the drawers:






Perusing the bookcase.



Reading to me.




Making a beeline for the hallway.


…and finally, down for bed. Note the similarity between your hair and the hair of the 1980s pop icon (from the band Flock of Seagulls):




Loving you lots, my little rock star!
Your mommy