My dear sweet Lulu,
You’re 23 months. There comes a time, which happens to be around about now that mothers have to stop counting a child’s age in months. It confuses people, particularly men, when they ask how old you are and I relay your age in months and they’re like, “How old?”
Twenty-three months. Not 2, and definitely not 1. This is the last month I can count your age in months. Tears.
Actually I’ll probably still do it, if only to myself.
Next month you’ll be two, and you’ll be the sweetest, most animated, most delicious two year old I know. But let me not get ahead of myself, because I still have a something-month old baby on my hands for another month, and that baby is you.
I don’t know what I did to deserve you Lulu, but I’m glad I did whatever I did. You’re just delightful. You make me laugh every single day, more than once. On purpose. You know I love when you say delicious… so you say it, just to make me laugh. You’re sweet and caring, and smart and just so darn huggable.
I guess you’ll want to know what you liked at this age, and I can tell you in one word; FOOD.
I pack you a lunch box for when we head out for the day, and as soon as you spot it sitting on the bench you grab it, open it and demolish it before we’ve left the house… and that’s despite eating three courses for breakfast already.
You love your food, that’s for sure.
What else do you love? To sing. To dance. To play. To make mess. To put things in other things; toys in bags, jewellery in boxes, kitchen utensils in your bedroom. Lots of things go missing these days. You love to squeal loudly, in protest. There’s no ‘I want to do this please!’ you just squeal loudly to let us know you want something done. We’re working on that.
But you have good manners when that things is done: “Tankoo Daddy” or “Pees Mummy”. It’s so very cute.
Your best mate is your cousin T’el. You love her very much, but you’re also not afraid to battle it out over toys with her. You’re both getting so much better that you’ll actually go out of your way to make sure things are fair, and that each other has a drink/food/toy or whatever it is you’re playing with.
You’re just joy. If I could bottle up this feeling of being your mama, I would. You’re joy, pure exhausting, a mile a minute, fun and funny… but so lovely to be mama to.
I’m happy to see you each morning you wake, even when it’s stupid o’clock because you’re deliciously delightful, and cuddly and perfectly you.
I love you,