Happy first birthday, G!

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Birthday cake

Well, now G is one year old.  A year!  How did my little tiny baby turn into a one-year-old so fast?   Don’t answer that.

It’s been a long year, and a short year.  Many of the hours passed excruciatingly slowly.  The whole thing went by in the blink of an eye.  If we hadn’t had her, everything would probably look just about the same as it did a year ago, maybe two years.  We’d have slept more, learned less.  We’d have fewer dilemmas.  We might be more sure that there must be a satisfactory way for careers and children to coexist, even if it wasn’t obvious to us what it was.  We’d have laughed much, much less.  We’d have missed out.

Before G, I didn’t see what people saw in babies and small children.   Now I know babies are incredible and awesome.  I fully expect to learn that this is also true about small children in the very near future.

Happy one year, our little G.  We’re so proud of you.


G likes apples.

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Young G has discovered apples as objects encountered on trees, which may be detached therefrom.  She’ll grab one and pull, but in general isn’t strong enough to get one herself and needs a hand.  We’ll usually pull one off for her and shudder as we rotate it to discover the black specks and the wormhole, and she’ll clutch it, enraptured, to her breast.  As she’s carried back to the house, she’ll try to explore its properties with her mouth, impeded by parental fingers.

She has to endure a moment of separation from the prize while it’s scrubbed and the nasty bits chopped off.

Today I held the apple against my breastbone with my chin as I tried to lower her onto the playmat.  She held to the apple with both hands, dangling from it to the last as until gravity got the best of her and she had to relinquish it.

Returned to her, cleaned, with juicy facets and hand-hold niches cut into it, the unripe cooking apple is ravished.