*o, pish posh!*

*open letter: 18 months of pea*

My dear Sweet Pea,

You are looking out the upstairs window, listening to the birds sing. I know that you are listening because you are singing along. "Teet teet teet, teet teet teet." That is your bird song, always with the same melody, always with the same dance. You are 18 months old today, and your imagination is in full bloom. You have just finished preparing and drinking pretend tea, though you’ve never had the real thing.

Since your first birthday, my maternal worrying has slowed down quite a bit. You’re walking. You’re talking. Everything seems right on track. The talking is the big thing — you are stringing together sentences! Sure, most of them start with "Itza," "whereza," and "lookada," but I’m still quite impressed. You’re even capable of answering my questions. Not just the yes/nos or the multiple choices, but actual open ended questions. Last night when you sat in your high chair staring at your couscous, I asked, "what’s wrong with your couscous, Pea?" and you answered, "itza hot!" and blew on your spoon just like I do when food is too hot. And it was hot. You were right. You have finally promoted me from "Baba" to "Mama," and there’s no word I enjoy hearing more. Your dad has gone from "Baba" to "Boppy" to "Bapa" to "BA!" which is always said in a staccato with all capital letters and an exclamation point. BA! . I just know that any day now we’ll hear you saying "POP!" instead.

You’re also learning to deal with people. Every Friday morning we go to the library for story time. The very first time we did this, I came home and compared you to an unsocialized puppy. Now you say "hallo!" to your favorite librarian, share with the other kids, and treat the youngest babies as gently as you can. You’re a trend setter. When you decide to sit in a tiny chair instead of on a quilt on the floor, or to pluck the laminated paper leaves off the picket fence in the story room, the other little ones join in. I’m never sure when to stop you. I don’t want to let you run wild, but I also don’t want to hover over you.

It hasn’t all been sunshine and flowers. Your sleep habits have gone from bad to worse to Oh Dear Lord I Want My Bed Back. People raise an eyebrow when I tell them we’ve started co-sleeping, and I always say the same thing — "It’s not for everyone." What I don’t tell most people is that it’s certainly not for us. I don’t think we ever really believed that it was the best solution for your sleep problems, but we did know it was the easiest. Sometimes, when everyone just needs to sleep, the easiest solution is the best way to go. We’re going to help you learn to sleep in your room again. This may mean moving you into a Big Girl Bed way earlier than we planned to, but we’ll do whatever it takes. I had hoped to get rid of your paci by this 1.5 year mark, but it hasn’t happened. In the past few weeks you’ve grown more attached to that thing than ever, and have started asking for it by name. When you were through with your morning milk today, you looked up at me and asked, "Uh oh, whereza batti?" The pacis won’t disappear until we get the sleep thing worked out, so enjoy them while they last.

I sometimes wonder if I’m the right mama for you. I wonder if I’m capable of guiding you as you grow into the wonderful woman I know you are meant to be. I don’t think you doubt me, though. The other day when I got out of the shower, I picked you up for a hug and kiss. You grabbed two fistfuls of my wet hair for support and leaned back with laughter. If you trust my hair to keep you from falling, maybe you can trust my heart as well — Pop’s, too. We’ll do our best not to let you fall.

Love,
Mama