Dear Anna B. Nanni,
This week you are eight months old. Let's think about this for a second. Are you thinking about it? Good.
Remember how I said that six months might be my favorite time with you? Well, I might have been mistaken. In the past four weeks you have figured out how to sit in the grocery cart for longer than a minute:
Explored your technological side (again, you are your Daddy's girl):
And spent more than a few leisurely days by the pool:
And let's just say I could listen to that laugh all day long. When people ask me about you all I can say is that you are so much fun now. Not that you weren't fun before. It was just a different kind of fun. The fun before included a fair amount of paranoia and sleepless nights. This fun includes jogs around the lake and raspberries on your tummy. So it's different.
This is not to say that we don't have our moments. This week you got your first cold, and you are still snotty and congested. At church recently you laughed loudly during the consecration, which would have been enough to send me straight to Sister T's office back in the day (though the people around us found it hilarious). And you teased me with a week of 12-hour sleeps, you stinker. Let's get back to that lovely place, shall we? How about tonight?
A woman in her thirties should have a pretty clear idea of who she is. I have always identified myself as a wannabe writer, a book nerd, and a teacher, pretty much in that order. But now, since you, I identify myself first as a mother. And here's the crazy part-- this new identity makes me want to be better at all those other parts of who I am. I don't know how you do it, but in eight months you've taught me how to be me.
Thank you for giving me you.