Wednesday, August 11, 2010

9 Months

Dear Delilah,

Today, you are 9 months old. In what is becoming a common theme, I can't seem to figure out where all the time has gone. 9 months. 39 weeks. You were born when I was 39 weeks and 3 days pregnant (or so they say), which means that in a few short days, you'll have been on the outside of me for longer than you were on the inside of me.

You were easier to take care of on the inside, but are so much more fun on the outside. You are an absolute blast, and you seem to be enjoying life completely. You've been giggling and letting out short little laughs for what feels like forever, but last night, for the first time, you started shrieking with laughter and letting out long bouts of belly laughs. Daddy and I couldn't help but laugh ourselves, which made you laugh longer and harder, which made US laugh longer and harder. Our home was filled with nothing but joyous laughter for the better part of the time I was preparing dinner. The love was just dripping off of all of us. If we all had 10 moments in life that could be bottled and saved forever, that was one I'd choose, without question.

At 9 months old, you've hit many big milestones. You hardly ever tip over anymore when you're sitting and playing. You can stand with assistance from us or nearby furtniture for several minutes. You roll everywhere. You often fall asleep on your own, without nursing. You have two adorable little teeth.

Your favorite toys are your little piano, your new "laptop" from Grandma Laurel, Sophie the Giraffe, and your orange stuffed lion. You LOVE crinkling paper. You also love licking the wood floors and sucking on your feet. You love to eat noodles and pancakes, and still prefer vegetables to fruit. You can pick up smaller pieces of food and get them into your mouth. Asparagus still seems to be your favorite food.

Today, someone said to me "Before you know it, she will be a teenager." My heart skipped a beat. I can't even imagine you with hair, much less as a teenager (or even a kindergartner, for that matter). You are my little baby! My sweet, precious, smiley little Dilly. Dilly illy illy. You certainly won't have me calling you that when you're a teenager. Can we make a deal? Can I still call you Dilly, and my little big stuff, and butternut, and monkey, as long as I promise not to do it when your friends are around? Please?

I love you, my little monkey.




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