Memo to Emmy: 11 Months

Dear E. Pearl,

That's the new name I may be calling you from now on. Because we met another Emerson at your Gymboree class. A white girl, one month older than you. I TOLD YOU GOOD DOCTOR!! Her mom said she too had heard from other people that there are Emersons out there but she'd never met one until you. And we've also run into the "Oh Emerson, what a pretty name! Our friend's daughter is named Emerson."

Have we ever met a Pearl? NEVER! Not even close. They are all dead because Pearl is an old lady's name. Or a hot Marvin's name. Well, we will have to see what you think when you grow up.

And growing up you are. You can pull yourself into a stand faster than Mommy can grab a chocolate soymilk carton out of the fridge. Which means Mommy can't do much other than watch you like a hawk when you're on the move. You are crawling like a champ and the tops of your pudgy feet are like little pincushions that protect you against the wood floors and millions of dog food crumbs that Romeo, Tofu, and Coco sprinkle everywhere now that eating giant tartar control kibble in every room of the house is the new pastime.

You started the month with Michaelangelo fingers, reeeaaaching your little hand out whenever you see us walk by. Now you try to snap, looking at your thumb and middle finger and wondering why they don't make the same loud popping sound as Daddy's when you move them together. You love to stick your tongue out and lick your lips back and forth going, "Llllaaahhh llllaaaahhh lllllaaaaaahh."

Suddenly you developed a phobia of bathwater and the Evil Faucet. One day you just started crying when we put you into your frog tub, and for weeks you randomly refused to lower your right leg into the water. And you now look over your shoulder at the Evil Faucet every time we start your bath. I don't know what words happened between you two, but we may need to take this to mediation.

We put you on the swing for the first time and held our breath waiting for your reaction when we let go. Massive grin. Girl, you're a thrill seeker.

E. Pearl, you offer your applause generously and you shriek randomly and delightfully just as often. It's a few decibels too loud for 745am but it's apparent you've inherited your mother's loud voice. You're especially fond of hand feeding the dogs, especially the one that loves you the least, Coco. It's taken at least 6 months off Mama's life keeping your face and fingers from her piercing chihuahua teeth.

You love other babies and kids. You can't get enough of their shrill voices and their eerie resemblance to the face you see in the mirror. Gymboree has been a big hit with you, especially the colorful plastic wiffle balls and hundreds of little bubbles that float down at the end of class. You're a champion pusher, doing the lion's share of rolling the air log when all the other babies start falling off like flies and crying and rubbing their eyes. 

You're just the happiest camper we could ask for. We know how lucky we are and every day we are grateful for the new lightness and laughter you bring to our bellies. Like when you yank out Daddy's arm hairs while you drink your milk.

Love you little Monkey,

Mum and Pop