I guess a baby technically becomes a toddler when she starts walking. Peony took her first steps less than two weeks ago, which was roughly a week before her first birthday. But really, she’s a toddler in name only. I say that because her temperament most closely resembles that of a bunny rabbit on Xanax.
However, having been to this rodeo before — my older daughter is 4 going on check-me-into-one-of-those-fancy-celebrity-rehabs-on-account-of-exhaustion’ — I’m quite aware of the fact that will change.
It’s just a matter of time.
My pregnancy with Peony was marked by its uneventful-ness. Her first year was significant in that she did little else besides smile, look perfectly adorable, never poop in the bath, and rarely complain, even when her older sister generally tried to drag every last bit of life out of her body.
This will not last forever.
But I’m enjoying it while I can.
* Peony’s name isn’t actually Peony. That’s just what my husband and I told people her name was when she was in utero. Like her big sister Petunia (also not her real name) before her, I decided when I started writing about my kids that it would be unfair to use their real names, particularly when I’m talking about them in the context of things such as explosive diarrhea and nuclear tantrums. After all, when they’re old enough to start googling themselves (oh, like you don’t ever Google yourself?), it would be a shame if their names showed in searches that said things like, “And then we assured ourselves after she smeared the entire jar of Vaseline on the rug that the cops would totally understand if we dangled her out the window, Michael Jackson/Blanket-style.”
Photo credit: Meredith Carroll
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