Today, you are 11 months old, and that means your reflux is cured. Really. The good doctor pretty much promised me this would be the case when he saw you a couple of months ago. He said that by 11 months you would be done with this. I HEARD HIM SAY IT, HELEN, didn't you? Apparently not, because right before I came downstairs to write this post, you hurled all over me. Last Friday, you did a cute little projectile vomit all over the parking garage as we left Union Station, and my only thought at the time was "well, at least it didn't hit me". And I told you then you had one more week and then nada, zilch, nothing. No more reflux! I SAID SO. THE DOCTOR SAID SO! WHY ARE WE NOT IN CHARGE?
OK, so now that the eleven consecutive months of spitting is off my chest, I ought to point out all the lovely things that have changed about you this month. For starters, you climb stairs. For a girl who was content to sit for over nine months of her life, you sure seem to be in a big hurry these days. There I was, putting a puzzle together with your brother, looking over at you pulling up on the stairs (isn't that cute?). And then I glanced up again, and you were on the first stair, and did anyone ever tell you that at the bottom of those stairs is a tile floor? Well, no matter. There were three other adults in the room who were happy to spot you as you climbed that staircase, and my stomach just kept turning because now there is another danger I must be aware of on our days together.
You love eating real food, Helen, and this is good since your dad and I are basically too lazy, or tired, or busy to puree food for you. So instead, we chop up whatever we're eating and give it to you, and on the rare occasion that we don't do this you look at my plate very indignantly until I give in and give you whatever I am having. So far, only carrots and sweet potatoes offend you. And yogurt. But we only tried that once, and then we decided not to give you any cow's milk products until you learned how to poop. And uh, you haven't yet figured that out, I'm sad to say. We haven't tried any fish yet because that is the one dietary rule we were given for you and even we can follow one stinkin' rule, though it does seem somewhat silly to me at this point.
You still hang with the punches, and that continues to be a lovely, lovely trait. You see, your brother loves jumping into the pool cannonball style, and if I am the only adult there to supervise, it means you and I take it in the face. Lucky for me, you laugh. You also will regularly just put your face down into the water, and you always pick it up and smile, and I cannot for the life of me figure out if you think it's funny to cause me to have heart failure or if you are relieved that you are no longer underwater. You've done it in the bathtub when your dad was present too.
You still love to be included in anything and everything your brother does. One day, I came home from work and you were actually chasing him around the room. My dad was laughing up a storm, as was Connor, and you did not even stop what you were doing when I came into the room, which is unlike every other time I came into the room this past month.
No new verbal signs this month to report. But, thanks to a visit from my mom, you have added the "so big" trick to your bag. It's impressive, Helen, every time.
The drama factor in your life can be high. When I put you down because I need to brush my teeth, or wipe your brother's butt, or stir something on the stove, you often sit down and put your forehead on the floor. And weep. Because life for a baby? It is really, really hard. I used to continue holding you for that last one, until you reached over and touched a pan, and that was not good. Definitely not good.
I'm trying to hold onto little memories these days, because with the passing of time, and the realization that there will be no more babies in my house, I'm suddenly struck that each change you make takes you further away from being a baby, and me further away from witnessing whatever it was just changed.