A Painted House

Dear Edison: Month Fourteen

Posted on: January 22, 2012

Dear Edison,

You’re fourteen months old!  I’m so glad I waited until the end of the day you turned fourteen months to start this letter because just before bedtime tonight you decided it was time to walk.  You’ve been toying with the idea for a while, flying around furniture and launching yourself between stationary objects with your arms spread wide like one of those flying squirrels.  But tonight you finally summoned the courage to let go, trust your own feet, and toddle your way across the dining room and into the outstretched arms of your Daddy.   And then you did it over and over and over again, your excitement growing each time, until you were flinging yourself back and forth between your Dad and I with uncontained glee and a reckless disregard for your own safety.  And your Dad and I were just as excited as you were, cheering you on like you were competing in the Olympics.

This month’s letter is one of those that won’t just write itself, Edison, because it’s the middle of winter and we’ve been cooped up inside for several months now.  Which means we’ve been staring at each other, the new paint color in the kitchen,  and little else for weeks.  Also, we’re taking turns at whose nose gets to alternate between Fire Hose and Cotton Wad status.  It’s the least fun game, ever.  So I might find myself stretching for material here and waxing poetic about the adorable way you empty the sippy cup bin all over the kitchen floor every stinkin’ time I turn around.  One minute the kitchen is clean and the next it looks like someone threw a hissy fit in the cup aisle at Babies R Us.  Or maybe I’ll talk about how you must have been born with a homing device leading you to the remote control, no matter how sneaky we are about hiding it.   The back of the couch, behind the throw pillows, on top of the kitchen table….these are all no match for you my little button-pusher.  I swear we could bury that thing in the garden and plant tomatoes over it and you’d find a way to resurrect it and change the channel on the TV during the pivotal scene of James’ favorite TV show.  This does not annoy him at all.

All that to say, we’ve all been challenged to find ways to keep busy during these winter months, a task at which you’re exceptionally good.  There is always another cupboard to empty, another drawer of batteries and silverware and sundry baby-maiming objects to discover, another roll of toilet paper to unwind.  And I will admit that not once but twice in a week’s time did I enter the kitchen to discover that you’d reached further than I thought you could, pulled down James’ half-finished carton of yogurt off of the kitchen table, and painted yourself, the chairs, and the floor in pink goo.   And I don’t even want to talk about how many times I found you with your hands in toilet water before I remembered to always, always, always keep the bathroom door shut.  So smart, I am.  You may catch on incredibly quickly to new ideas but it seems I do not.  The upside, if there is one, is that you now regularly smell like strawberries.

We’re so looking forward to introducing you and your wobbly little walk to the outside world in a few weeks, Edison.  You’re going to love this thing called Spring and all the places outside the walls of this house that your legs can take you.  Hopefully by the time I write your next letter, we’ll be experiencing some of that together.  In the mean time we’ll pass the time by emptying the DVD cupboard, dumping the pieces out of every puzzle we own, and spreading Hotwheels cars far and wide across the living areas of our home.  It seems these things never grow old, a fate I regularly wish for you.

Love, Mama


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