12 Months and a Party

Dear Ava,

Today you turned one year’s old. This past Sunday, all our friends and family gathered around in our home to celebrate your very first birthday party. Gramps flew in from San Francisco, Halmoni from Chicago, and Imo and Uncle Trevor from Seattle! Even all your "local" aunties and uncles all came out to celebrate with you.

You received lots of nice gifts from your relatives (including a soft, leather bib!), confirming my suspicion that you are the luckiest/most spoiled girl ever. From the looks of your toy collection, which takes up half the living room, one might think that a Toys R Us truck jack-knifed the front of our house.

At your party you also got to have your very own piece of cake, which you enjoyed immensely. You didn't like it at first, but in your usual girly fashion, you delicately poked your two forefingers into the frosting and gave a sweet little diabolical grin of delight. Forget the part when you cried when everyone laughed and clapped at your reaction, you really did enjoy that cake. At one point, Daddy had to pull you away from the table, shoving every last piece in your mouth to keep you from crying. One thing we definitely know – you have your mama’s sweet tooth.

You weren't in the best of moods, cranky even, but we realized later that it was for a good reason- you were constipated! Just days before your birthday, we weaned from breastfeeding and went to drinking cow's milk for the first time. And apparently, this is a guaranteed way to get backed up for breastfed babies. We had no idea until we took you to the Doctors a week later - you poor thing! But ever the little hostess, you still smiled and laughed and had a great time.

Your twelfth month has been a month of chatter. You have begun to enunciate some words and your vocabulary is expanding on a daily basis. You’ve had “mama” (or really, MOM!) mastered for quite some time, but now you will sometimes say ‘joo’ (juice), ‘gaga’ (for Daddy, we assume), and ‘go’ when we either point to stairs or to Oliver (poor dog).

This month has also confirmed my suspicion that you are, in fact, the cutest child that ever lived. I’m not even being biased here. Empirically, you are just a doll. To your bag of tricks this month you’ve added “talking” on the phone (you’ll hold it up to your ear and say “hai”), and dance to everything and anything remotely musical. You especially love the Taco Bell commercial, which for some reason, seems to send you into frenzy of methodical squats and adorable fist pumping. I know I’m your mom, but seriously dude? You are frickin’ adorable!

You’ve also become quite the chatterbox, speaking ad nauseum in your own little language, usually something like:

“Bay bay bay bay MAAAAAAAA oooooh guishguish GAAAAAAAAH la la la MA aaaaaaah DAAAAAAA”

If we didn’t know any better (or speak another language for that matter), I’d swear your baby dialect was actually Mandarin Chinese. You babble with so much conviction, emotion, and inflection that it often leaves your father and I wondering what exactly you’re trying to tell us. But knowing that sly little grin of yours, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were listing off the table of elements or giving some stock option tip to your gramps ;).

Besides your non-stop chatter – which we adore – you use a ton of gestures and signs to communicate what you want. You’ve mastered the sign for ‘more’, can shake your head yes and no (mostly no), and wave bye bye and hello (especially so when we sing the Bye Bye song we learned from swim class). I would be on the phone to Harvard already if you didn’t also pull your own hair and lick the ground for fun.

Also, to make up for your new independence, you have begun to “give kisses.” Granted, they are usually the open-mouthed, French variety, but kisses are kisses and I will take them any way I can get them, even if they are on my nose.

Another favorite of yours this month has been your pink Little Giraffe Blankie, given to you by Aunty Lori, who loves to spoil you with extravagant gifts. You take that blankie everywhere you go and especially love to rub the soft fabric all over your face. I always wondered if a child of mine would have a special blankie/wubby/bobo like me and your daddy, and it’s no surprise – you are definitely are your mother’s/father’s daughter.

When I was pregnant with you I stopped at Jack-In-The-Box one day (a girl needs her chicken strips, okay?) and out front sat a girl of not more than 17 holding a baby not more than two weeks old. The baby wore only a onesie, and it was late November, certainly sweater weather around here. She held the baby with one hand and smoked a cigarette with the other.

What I thought then was that, unfortunately, one cannot chose to whom they’re born. That poor innocent baby with only a onesie in the cold November wind did not get to choose her mother. If I had to guess, that poor, unfortunate baby will probably never know her father, experience the wonder of a Christmas morning with Santa’s bounty under a lit tree, or go to college. And she didn’t choose it… it’s just the luck of the draw.

You didn’t get to choose your father and I either. We may never be extremely wealthy, might have to scrimp and save now and then, and will probably have to remortgage the house to send you to college, but we will always make sure you’re warm, fed, safe, and most importantly, LOVED. You didn’t choose us, my darling Ava, but we definitely chose you.
Your father and I have so much love for you, and the love we and the rest of your family feel for you could light up a room, even on a stormy day.