You are healthy, beautiful, and smart as a whip, and still I worry. Are you getting enough time? Are people--am I-- paying enough attention to you? I wonder what it would have been like to raise children in an age before parenting, in a era when no one would have thought twice about whether or not you were being cooed at a sufficient amount.
For three days this month you said the word cat. You would crane your neck around looking for her, smile in anticipation. And then you stopped. You haven't successfully managed language again since.
Your crawling has become more balanced; you no longer drag your left leg as you scoot forward with your right.
You still light up when your dad walks into the room, but you give almost nothing to strangers who try to make friends with you while at the grocery store or church.
This month you burst teeth. You fought a cold. You caught that stomach bug that briefly plagued half the house. And yet, most days you remain your understated, pleasant self. Crawling around in search of some forgotten chockable object, trying to balance your weight in a first attempt to take steps, patting away on the head of your cousin.