I don’t want her to be eleven months old. Ten months was safer. Ten months was still baby. Eleven months is sketching a little too close to toddler and I’m not ready for that.
She’s not walking yet and since she’s been pulling up since she was seven months old that’s something of a shocker, but I’m glad. I’m not ready for a little teetering down the hall person.
She’s cutting six more teeth. Two are through the gums and the rest are this whitish glow we can see when she hangs her head back and screams because she’s mad she’s not getting her way. I’m not ready for temper tantrums from this little one.
She’s discovered the kitchen cabinets. They are by far the most interesting thing in our house and are way cooler than any toy she got for Christmas. She opens them up and scatters the lids to all my Pyrex dishes all over the floor, but I’m not ready to put locks on all my cabinets.
She sleeps through the night except for an occasional early morning wake up for a diaper change and a cuddle and then it’s right back to bed. She fits right under my chin and nuzzles her face in my shoulder. I breathe deep so I can get in all that sweet baby smell of vanilla and soap and innocence. Sometimes I hold her extra tight and just sit.
And I’ll never be ready to give that up.