Well, when I announced I was coming back, I forgot to factor in when, exactly, I would blog again. I've actually been working on the same post for three days. I'm calling it a wash and starting over.
Emmy threw her first fit in a public place yesterday.
That year went fast, didn't it?
All of December I have been thinking, "Last year I was miserably pregnant at this Christmas party," or, "I skipped last year's Christmas Eve service because I was too pregnant to do anything past 5 p.m." A year ago my little Emmy was still in my WOMB, and now she's throwing fits in restaurants, and eating ornaments (but not before saying "no no" as she reaches for it) and requesting crackers every half hour or so. She took her first steps on Christmas Eve, has thoroughly enjoyed tasting every new superhero as it was unwrapped, and is generally filling our house with the screeches and demands of toddlerhood.
I love it.
This is the stage that makes pregnancy worth it. I mean, of course, the creation of a human life is always worth discomfort, and all of that. But when I'm beached on the couch in the last trimester while children run amok around me, the thought of this moment is what keeps me from despair. I love the metamorphosis - from tiny infant curled into my chest, to this little baby girl, squealing and protesting and blowing kisses. Who will she be in a year? I can't wait to find out.
(Case in point - I want to hold her, and she wants to get down already, and go find another basket to upend. Such is the life of a toddler.)