Dear Kaylee,

I’m so excited that you’ve hit the 18-month mark, because maybe now it’s ok for me to stop giving your age in months. Maybe now I can just say you’re “one-and-a-half” until you turn two. Except, 18 months isn’t really the same as 23 months, so maybe I’ll have to keep on doing the mental gymnastics required to remember your exact age. Maybe, just for fun, I’ll keep giving your age in months for the rest of your life. When you’re 30, I’ll be telling everyone I have a 364-month-old daughter. Because I can.

Three months ago, I spent a routine visit at your pediatrician’s office trying not to cry. I’d just been told that you weren’t getting enough calories, your weight was too low, you were too short, and that if it continued they’d probably have to run a bunch of tests to figure out why you weren’t growing. So it was with some trepidation that I took you to your 18-month appointment this morning. Not only were you going to get a bunch of vaccinations, but you were also due for another weigh-in. Once again, they charted your progress and compared you to all the other kids in the country. And they didn’t say anything. Not a thing. So I had to ask, and I had to keep my voice from trembling when I said, “Last time you were worried about her growth … what do you think now?” The doctor peered through his reading glasses at your stats and gave me his verdict: Normal, just barely. Your weight is officially in the fifth percentile. Somehow, being in the fourth percentile was something to worry about, but being in the fifth percentile is ok. Whatever. At least I can let it go now.

This month, you’ve been surprising us with your ability to learn new things faster than we can consciously teach them to you. You used the potty before we realized you even understood what a potty was for. You say new words without us knowing you’ve ever heard those words before. You can point at and name every part of your face. You can blow kisses. You can shred a bagel in under 30 seconds. You can give candy away to other kids without worrying about having less candy to keep for yourself. You cannot stand being told “no.” You CAN stand telling other people, and the dogs, “no,” “uh-uh” and “AAAARRRGH.” You give the best hugs.

By this time next month, when I’m getting ready to write you another letter, things will have changed a lot for us. You and I will be seeing each other more, and I can’t decide whether to be excited about it or worried about how to keep you busy. It’s a little bit of both, I guess. We’ll see when we get there, but I promise I’ll try to make it fun, and I’ll do my best to keep the dogs from stealing your Cheerios and making you scream.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

This month has been stressful in a bunch of ways that I’m not willing to discuss on the Internet. (But no panicking, little girl, because it’s not your fault and it’s not Daddy’s fault. We’re still the same happy little family.) Unfortunately, you’ve seen me break down into tears a couple of times, and I’m sorry. The look of worry on your face when Mommy starts blubbering is not one I want to see again, and I’ll do my best to keep from causing you any more anxiety.

You’ve spent this month becoming simultaneously more independent and clingier. I didn’t even know that was possible. When you’re in a good mood, you’ve become more and more likely to wander off on your own, coloring at your new Kaylee-sized table or chasing the dogs with your baby-doll stroller. This is wonderful. Daddy and I love that you’re finding ways to keep yourself busy, because — I hate to break this to you — entertaining you can be exhausting. Which leads to the “clingier” part of that first sentence. You’ve gone through a pretty severe Mommy Phase this month, where you sometimes won’t let me leave your side. Last week, you cried every single morning when I left you at daycare. You often cried when I went to the bathroom, when I took a shower and when I put you down so I could put on socks. This phase is easing, which makes me happy, but I know it’ll come around again in a couple of months or so.

Your clinginess finally reached an unacceptable level last week when you refused to sleep unless you were being held by either me or Daddy. So we’ve had to retry the “crying it out” routine, which is never fun for anyone. We’re getting through it now, though, and I’m happy to report that you’ve slept pretty soundly for three nights in a row. (But I can’t help getting a sinking feeling as I type this, because I know I’ve just jinxed everything. Tonight, you’re going to stay up all night, aren’t you? Sigh.)

Earlier this month I referred to you as a “psychotic popsicle junkie” because you had developed a weird obsession with carrying around wrapped popsicles. For a few days there, I had myself convinced that it was time to start saving for your upcoming therapy bills, because you would positively explode with rage whenever anyone dared to suggest that you eat the popsicle, rather than carrying it around and dripping its sticky syrup all over the furniture. But you stopped that, too, and now you’re back to doing an elaborate dance — it involves flapping your arms and jumping up and down — every time you’re in the vicinity of a popsicle. I’ve come to think you’re more excited about the idea of a popsicle than anything else, because sometimes you ask for a popsicle, forget about it halfway through, and then ask for another one. Your little brain is a mystery to me.

I love you, sweetie. I love you when you’re mysterious, when you’re clingy, when you’re independent, and when you’re screaming in the middle of the night because you don’t want to go back to sleep. Even when you’re dramatically imperfect, you’re perfect.

Love,

Mommy