Madeline is turning one in two days. Sometimes I wish she was as excited about it as I am. Basically, we'll sing happy birthday and she'll rip some paper off some presents, but she'll have no idea why we're letting her stuff herself with cake or breaking out a brand new outfit to wear. I could have given her a Twinkie and let her play in the dishwasher and she'd be none the wiser. For Jessie and I, however, it will be a significant event, so I'll make a special cake and wrap her presents in cute paper and make sure she does her hair, so that they'll be pictures to put in a scrapbook. (Like that's actually going to happen.) Then in twenty years I can show her I was a good mother who gave her memories. Jessie and I had fun shopping for her presents last night. She's seen each and every one of them, and tested them too, but she'll be surprised anyway. I love one year olds.
It's kind of weird to think that a year ago was my due date. I remember it well, because I sat around crying most of the day, cursing other women who got to have their babies two weeks early, and wondering how bad castor oil tasted. (Horrible by the way. But it's not as bad as being nine and a half months pregnant. So I'd take it again in a heartbeat.) I'm glad Madeline didn't take too much longer to make her debut and prove to me that yes, it was possible to be more sleep-deprived and that there are things that will make you want to cry more than being heavily pregnant. But we got through the first week, and life got better and Madeline got steadily cuter, and I'm glad we went through the whole mess and now have proof that Jessie and I have awesomely good-looking genes. I think we'll keep her.
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