Eleven months. We're almost there, baby. With you being my second somehow I really did believe this go around that we'd never reach this moment in time. That you'd never turn one. Instead, you'd always be my baby. Squirmy, cuddly, mama obsessed baby Emily Kate. But now, somehow, you're supposed to move from baby Emily Kate to toddler Emily Kate. Okay, who am I kidding. You're already toddling. But I refuse to admit it till October 15th.
All the signs are there. You're big enough to give my feet an ache when I wear you on my back. And at 23 pounds and the 90th percentile for height you can almost wear your big sister's 3 year old wardrobe. You have your first pair of shoes and you sit on the step while I place them on your feet before leaving the house. You walk down the street holding on with just one hand for steadiness. You're less and less a baby. But somehow, you don't feel any less a baby to me than the day you were born.
The way you look when you fall asleep in my arms. The sweet scent of your head. The happy humming you do when you eat. Your fascination with your big sissy. How life stands still when I let you fall asleep next to me and I watch you sleep. Everything about your babyhood will always feel like only yesterday. It's been bliss. A very, very, very tired bliss as you're not particularly found of sleeping. But a sweet and precious bliss nonetheless.
You'll always be my baby. Always.