I’ve spent the last month trying to embrace an attitude of gratitude, trying to soak up all the little joys in my life. I’ve considered writing about my littlest joy a few times, but I’m struggling with it. She’s my last baby.
Every single thing she learns is our last first. She gave us our last first little toothless grin, and our last first tiny baby cackle. When she took her first steps, I pushed her down because I wasn’t ready. I’m kidding, I didn’t have to push her. She has two older siblings. When we found out about her, I wondered if she’d be more like her ornery older brother or her wild older sister. This girl wasn’t having any of that. She does things her own way, and preferably by herself in a quiet corner of the house.
She rode a bus for the first time this year, and she wasn’t a fan. She told me it’s “too big and too many people”. Every morning when we wake up, we all put on our happy faces, and we tiptoe through getting her ready. We have learned that she wakes up grumpy, and if we make one false move before the bus pulls up, she’s not getting on. She runs this house like a mob boss.
She doesn’t stay grumpy, of course. Overall, she’s the happiest of the three. Her dad and I were talking about that the other day. She’s so content. She can sit and watch, play by herself, or join in happily. Once we get past our morning grumpiness, she’s laid back and calm, which I’m fairly certain she doesn’t get from me.
I could go on forever, sounding very much like your typical proud mom, hashtag blessed, but it’s thanksgiving and the wine ain’t gonna drink itself. Cheers!