On Monday you turned ten months old. Ten. As in double digits. As in, I now get promotional e-mails asking me how I will celebrate your first birthday, which-- really? While it feels in my heart like time is flying faster than I can blink, I look outside at leaves falling to earth, the air turning crisp, and see you, growing growing you and know that time is making its mark. You are not the baby I began the year with.
You clap on demand, say bye-bye like a pro, and you climb anything you possibly can. This is hilarious, adorable and most of all terrifying.
Parks are also no longer a place you passively lie back in a stroller and watch. No, this month was the month you wanted to get out and get involved. Which, with two kiddos, keeps me busy.
Your father was in Saudi this month and so we spent a few weeks in Florida. You partied it up with your mamus, mami, and grandparents, and spent your first Eid ever with them.
You also began enjoying
|Kashmiri rusk, its all the rage.|
And kiddo, as a postscript, I should mention that though your father might not write you monthly love letters, he changes your diapers, gives you baths, feeds you bananas and loves you more than life itself. He might not put it quite this way but he thinks you are sunshine, roses, and fuzzy little kittens all wrapped into one.
As do I. It's a given ofcourse. Parents love their children. But can it ever be said too much how much we love those we love? Because I can't seem to grow tired of telling you. That I love kissing your soft cheeks and watching your face blossom into a grin. I love your nose, how it scrunches when you laugh. I love your giggles. And your squeals, like you're a boy-turned-puppy. We have a problem, us adults. We can sometimes take for granted those we love but ten months in? The wonder and thrill of having you in my life and being lucky enough to love feels as brand new as the day I met you. I'm truly madly deeply in love with you. I am breathless with the joy of knowing you. Will it ever get old? Pretty sure it never will.