Dear Lucy,

I must have been perpetually dozing the past year and a half, mouth hanging open the way your father loves, because I woke up this morning and realized you turned 18 months old overnight.

My Goosey, you are constantly moving, poking, dancing, playing and exploring. It is no wonder you out-eat me almost every single day, because you never ever sit still. The past month you have spent refining your running skills, and even though it’s often just your still-chubby legs pumping very fast in one spot while your body aches to catch up, mygoodness you move fast. I believe we all burn calories by osmosis just watching you.

I don’t know how old I was, but one time I stuck a twist tie in a light socket and got a horrible shock (I distinctly remember your Grandpa taking me out to get ketchup chips after to make me feel better). One part of me is waiting for you to do this, as you are absolutely entranced with anything that challenges your fine motor skills: snapping together buckles — which you do after every single stint in your booster seat — doing puzzles, unhooking latches, dropping barrettes/flashlights/bookmarks behind doors with an “Uh-oh!” and a grin. You put books in and out of cases, squeeze plastic bath toys to make them squirt, clap together the paws of your stuffed animals.

Saturday afternoon you discovered an ancient radio I keep in our bathroom, and in less than two minutes you figured out how to open and close the tape deck. You are always so proud of yourself when you accomplish things, turning to us with a triumphant smile, clapping hands and saying “Eeeeeee!” in a mimic of our near constant “Yay, Lucyyyyyyy!” since every day you do something new.

You know dozens of signs, including egg, cracker, cookie, more and movie. It’s fascinating to see you switch between speaking with your hands and your mouth — it’s all communication to you. Your spoken vocabulary is too varied to list, but in an almost sentence, you love to yell “Mum-mum-mum AHHLLL-DUN!” while pointing at my empty plate. Intermingled with actual words are your Lucy-isms: “Plllephh” with your tongue while pointing at your blanket, the same noise for “washed the spider out” and “tee-toh-toh” for our house and your stroller.

You have also learned Yep (“Nep” with a nod), which you say quietly and seriously. It almost makes my eyeballs cross watching your adorableness.

And this month you started saying a very important word: bum. If your diaper is wet, you say bum. After you poop, you say bum. You also say it after waking up from a nap, when anyone even glances at the bathroom and when you see your potty. You are starting to enjoy sitting on it. Yesterday you shoved your tiny stuffed raccoon, Bandit, into the bowl then sat on him. When you’re in the bathroom with me, you pull off toilet paper and stuff it between my legs.

Potty Training 101 is a family affair at Chez McDougall-Foster.

I believe one of your Uncle Marky’s chromosomes has seeped into you, because you dislike potatoes just like he does — and it’s the only food I’ve found you will not eat. You love to dip-dip-dip chicken and grilled cheese into barbeque sauce and ketchup, just like me. Your quest to master utensils continues each day, and I will continue to launder multiple outfits a day as you do so.

We have our own special language, you and I. I can cross my arms over my chest, turn my head and look at you sideways and create insta-giggles. I also moonlight as The Snuffle Monster, a snorting beast who attacks your neck and your ticklish sides. There is nothing, absolutely nothing better in the world than hearing you laugh.

I left you and your Daddy alone one day, and when I came home he’d taught you how to bonk heads. He can also take credit for “I dunno!” which sends you shrugging your shoulders and smiling with your head cocked. I’m a little nervous for when I go to PEI on business in a few weeks…

Your other favourite activities include throwing objects in your pool, “watering” my flowers, sitting on the countertop as I prepare food, rolling around on the floor, fetching objects we ask you to, dancing, making your stuffed animals dance, reading and anything and everything to do with Elmo.

It’s so rare that you stop moving long enough for me to hold you, but when you do — like in the middle of the night when you’re scared or if there are strangers around — I squeeze and snuggle and nuzzle and sniff and kiss you non-stop. The memories of your early days are already fuzzy, and I worry if I don’t fill my senses with you now, these will fade, too.

So I continue to see a moment and snap my eyes closed like a shutter, in an attempt to burn you onto the Lucy hard drive in my brain.

Love you, my sweet baby girl.

Possibly related posts:

1. The perpetual PMSing delightful little fart: 16 months
2. You @ 13 months
3. Cereal monster
4. Stupid green-eyed monster
5. I think you’ve changed more this month than any other: Nine months