For a second you were hesitant, unsure exactly what to do with it. Only for a second though and then you were gone. Hands gripping tightly to the handles of the walker, feet inching one in front of the other -slipping ever so slightly when your arms rushed out ahead- all six teeth sparkling you grinned your way forwards to me kneeling across the room: 24 hours after you stood for the first time, steady without wobbling at all, you’d decided to take your first solo steps and were mastering the art as a novice.
My darling T, you’re the brightest of bundles and the laughter of smiles, I cherish and delight in your being. At nine months you are shining, my sweet, and it’s not just a teething induced sheen. There are some people without whose presence a packed room feels incomplete, whose smiles are ready given with grace rare and precious, they fill the spaces others’ energy negates.
At nine months old,
you love lentils and pekmez and anything M eats
you climb nimbly up cushion towers,
race precisely up the stairs in a second.
You have straight blond soft hair, and a button nose which commands stopping to kiss as you pass.
At nine months old you’ve already taken your first steps, are almost standing on your own,
you love bouncing and jumping on anyone as a frame,
still love to sit still and nibble your toes.
You can spend minute upon minute lost entirely in your thoughts, tongue out, eyes flickering focused, but as soon as you sense anyone looking at you, beam their way, are instantly with them, and happy to be so: You really are a tonic to the soul.
Now your crawling is sprinting you chase after your brother, under table and chair legs, over people,
You pull yourself right up to his height to talk intensely to him, as he giggles at your enthusiastic face. You sit, one leg tucked under your bottom the other out at ninety degrees, anticipating his excitement when he notices you there, make him chase you to bounce up and down.
You love being tickled by M and diving on his tummy, and having your socks pulled off for toes to be counted.
You sit happily in the highchair swinging legs while you watch him, deconstruct his Lego towers and munch his playdoh-made cakes.
You never leave a cookie unclaimed.
ATM, you’re nine new months old and blossoming each day with your hair growth. You demand food for your stomach, command stimulation in appreciation, give delight in abundance and in joy; I hope you claim as much then and more back from us.
We love you so much Tiny T, not so tiny – don’t rush on the growing up thing.