As regular readers know, I occasionally use this blog in place of Maggie’s non-existent baby book.  Mother of the year, right here.  No baby book and exploiting my child on the internets, all in one fell swoop!  

Maggie Rose, you are 23 months old.  I cannot believe that you will be 2 next month, but since I am 8 months pregnant, I am thrilled by your upcoming birthday, as it gives me an excuse to bake you a cake!  Pregnant women need cake, Maggie Rose.  You’ll like it, too.

You are huge, over thirty pounds and off all the pediatrician’s charts.  Your size doesn’t always work to your advantage, as people often think you are a lot older than you actually are, and expect quite a bit from you.   You still have porcelain skin, blonde hair, and forget-me-not blue eyes that constantly remind me of your Chuck, and your great-grandmother Ivey.  Despite this obvious resemblance, at times Daddy and I are still mystified by your genetic expression.


It seems that you learn a new word or two every day, but mostly you repeat to me, from morning till night-night, the following:  “Woof -Woof? Daddy? Woof-Woof? Nan? Woof-Woof? Chuck? Woof-Woof? Nat Nat? Woof-Woof?”  You love your doggy, Maggie Rose, and there is no escaping those genetics.


You love your books, too, whether I am reading them to you or you are sitting quietly, thumbing through them.  It makes me happy to think that you might love reading as I do, the chance to escape daily to places you’ll never go and people you’ll never know.  I think reading is every bit as magical as any ole rabbit popping out of a hat.


This morning, I took you to preschool for the very first time.  You didn’t want me to leave, and you cried.  After dropping you off, I walked into my office, surveyed the piles of paperwork awaiting my attention, and cried, too.  I love to work, and my part of our honey company is something that defines me just as being your mother defines me, but despite my relief at the prospect of five hours of uninterrupted time to work, I was sad.  I know the time that I am the center of your universe is so very short.


But it’s out of love for you, too, baby girl.  I want you to be unafraid of a world without Mama, because I won’t be here forever, and if I continue to make the occasional dumb decision about rivers and mountains, forever might be awfully short, indeed.  I want you to make friends, too.  I am almost 33 and still find there is nothing quite as satisfying as making a new friend; even just the prospect of one cheers me considerably, and makes me feel like a vital part of the human race.  I don’t believe we are ever too old to make new friends or learn new things.  I do believe that making new friends and learning new things keeps us young even when we are very wrinkled and stooped.


So, I hope you learn to enjoy these spring mornings of new hands to hold, new brands of applesauce to taste, new art supplies to mangle.  They’ll pass quickly, and we’ll soon be back in Glacier County, with Daddy, and Brother or Sister, and the bees.

I love you, my little schmoo.



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