A letter from your mother on the occasion of your first birthday

Dear Eleri,
Oh, my glorious second child. It's days after your birthday and I'm finally getting to this letter. There was a party to plan, and on your actual birthday, after we served you a wedge of Clio's birthday cake with your own candle stuck in it and put you to bed, I just wasn't feeling it. But there is something to be said for being a second child: you get in on the traditions earlier. I started these birthday letters with Clio's second, but here I am, commemorating your first.

You're a funny little girl. You like to drape things around your neck, scarf-like (the long handles of fabric totes, strings from Clio's lacing work). We got you a little bus for your birthday, and you have taken to hiding all of the people under one of the living room chairs. Lately, you love to climb the stairs; you get yourself onto the landing, rise up on your knees, then reach one hand out to whoever is near and make a noise that says, let's go? You crawl with tremendous speed. You have super-baby strength. (Clio gets upset when I marvel at this, says "I'm strong, too." But I will say here, you are strangely, powerfully strong; the rest of us, relatively speaking, cannot compare.) At Day Care, they all call you "Pretty Girl." At home, in one short year you have earned three totem-animal names. For your tendency to bend forward or throw yourself down, forehead to the floor, in any and all unhappy circumstances, we call you The Ostrich. For the alarming way that you chew through cardboard--boxes, book spines--and gnaw on wood--blocks, your crib rails--we call you The Beaver. And for your cutest-ever fatty thighs, we call you Chunky Monkey.

Monkey, too, for the way you shriek. Just the other night, you let out a howl (accompanied by flailing hands and shaking head) so loud and prolonged, your dad, sister, and I were all silenced over dinner. When we looked at you, agape, you showed your teeth and laughed. If it weren't for that laugh, and the fact that you seemed perfectly happy, I might have called what had transpired a tantrum. It's happened more and more often since then (we reacted too well, didn't we?); and perhaps it is, in fact, frustration. At your one-year checkup on Friday, the pediatrician asked about language. "No words yet, but she communicates with me," I said. "No words?" she asked, and I shook my head, unconcerned. "Usually by one they're at least saying Mama and Dada." And she gave us a prescription for reading aloud to you (tricky when you'd rather eat the book) and labeling things repeatedly. I was not concerned, but perhaps you are: last night, when I gave you a bottle (BOTTLE. BOTTLE. BOTTLE.), you smiled delightedly, pointed to it, and repeated something that passed for two syllables and seemed to start with the letter b. I guess I forgot that you're not just going to learn it all on your own. At day care they claim you say "ja ja ja," the Spanish expression for "enough!"

As I have written here, you are adventurous. You love to jump on the bed, and you tend to throw yourself backwards, without looking; sometimes this ends badly, but your tears don't last long. You give big bear hugs. You play peekabo with me, grabbing my long hair and pulling it, like a curtain, in front of my face. You are independent- yesterday, at your birthday party, you hung out on a blanket with a changing stream of babies and adults; you just scavenged for fallen crackers and took it all in.

Sometimes I worry that we are not serving your particular needs well enough, partly because you are completely undemanding (except for that outstretched hand asking us to take you upstairs again), and partly because you are a second child, with a sister more capable of voicing her desires. You get dragged along wherever we take Clio, even if it means you must ride in a stroller or carrier instead of participating. But you know what? You always seem happy in the stroller, swinging your legs, once again taking it all in. On your actual birthday, I finally took you to the tot lot, the little playground in Prospect Park built for little ones like you. Mostly, you just wanted to pull yourself up and stand at the rail of the slide platform, calling out to the rest of us, or crawl after someone else's ball, but somehow you seemed to think the whole thing was great.
You're a pretty easy baby. So far. Thanks goodness for that!

What do most want you to know at one? Your greatest gift is that you make people feel good. When I get you up in the morning or following a nap, you give me a big hug and we look at ourselves in the mirror, cheeks pressed together. There's lots of change ahead, and we'll do our best to tune in to you. For now, let's get you talking so you can tell us what's on your mind yourself.

We love you,

Mom.