This girl. She’s my girl. She’s also occasionally my frenemy (hysterical sobs at the slightest correction or stern expression a normal girl thing? Pls advise.) She’s funny and high spirited and smarter than all of us (I think) and she only ever does things on her own timeline, her own way. I thank God daily that she is still in the >5% for height and weight because unless I pick her up and physically carry her somewhere sometimes, SHE IS NOT GOING.
And for that I thank the Lord. That she was given her physique and not, well, Luke’s. For example.
She is proof to me that babies are the kids and adult humans they will one day become from day one. She arrived after three excruciating days of intense prodromal labor, one false alarm trip to the hospital, one baby shower throughout which I labored at times visibly sweating in front of my guests (which is a fun party theme, you should plan one) and then finally, she was here. 10 days before her Christmas due date. For which I am also eternally grateful.
She is sassy, has the most precise elocution and dictation you have ever heard in a toddler (well, now preschooler I guess. Sob.) and knows way more than the average lady baby about all things Star Wars related. Just last night she pointed to a bottle of soap on the grocery store shelf and said “I do like Darth Vader, but I love Elsa,” surprising us both.
It’s funny to watch the more “girly” parts of her bubble to the surface under the dominant tomboy (always have hated that term) exterior. She still lets me dress her in basically whatever I want, which is a dream, so I kit her out like a little college freshman in skinny jeans and pink Sorrel’s from the thrift store with a herringbone pea coat on top and she’s like, ooooookay mom can we get on with it now?
I dread the day she starts resisting my sartorial efforts on her behalf. But I’m also curious about her own style, because she’s so chill about clothes, I wonder if she will care much at all.
Two weeks ago, she unceremoniously ripped off her diaper and handed it to me with a matter of fact “I don’t wear this anymore” before hopping up onto the looooooooooong contested potty seat and performing her duties as if it were an old, tired schtick. She has since had a single accident involving distraction during baking (understandable) and really nothing further to report. She is also night dry in an astonishing one-two punch that none of her nameless elder siblings have yet managed to land.
But that’s Evie. She does what she wants to do, on her own terms, in her own time. Just like sitting up (8 months) walking (18 freaking months) crawling (19 months. Confusing, yes?) and running (constantly, ever since then.) When I think about the hours we logged at PT and all the extra attention we lavished on her trying to accomplish those evasive motor milestones, I have to laugh because meanwhile she is jumping off the roof of the playhouse in the backyard and trying to scale the fence to get to the neighbor’s trampoline.
She still only weighs about 27 pounds, and Luke is edging ever closer to her with each bite of lunch he swallows. I’m not sure how tall she is because well child visits are not high in my repertoire of mom skills, but she is definitely sufficiently tiny that people startle when she speaks to them in complete, detailed sentences in the Queen’s English at Costco.
Last night she told me her birthday party was perfect, and that the only thing that could have made it more perfect would have been beef jerky. When I’m upset or mad or tired, she has been known to lay a little hand on my head or shoulder and start sweetly praying “Hail Mawy, full of gwace…” until mommy either bursts into tears or feels better. She likes to carry our poor, long-suffering cat around the house slung over her shoulder like a fur throw, and has taken to calling her “my little teenager,” because, you know, at 4 months old now, she’s not a kitten, not yet a woman.
Girlfriend, you’re the coolest. We love you little Evie doll. Happy birthday.