Dear Alice,

Among the chaos of 20 chattering people, crinkling tissue paper, music from the stereo beside us, you twirled in a circle clutching a cascade of ribbon. “Ahh-ahhh,” you sang, the biggest grin on your face. Eyes popping out of your head. Dancing. Smiling. Clapping.

You are one.

You came into the world in less than eight hours, a week late, on the one day (Halloween 2008) I did not want you to come. I can’t say this stubborn streak has continued, because you are now the most laid back, happy, adaptable baby.

You are your father.

You eat voraciously. We can’t fill up your tray fast enough. You eat everything, and share the rest with Spencer Dog by dangling your fingers down the side of your booster seat into his waiting snout, giggling.

You are smart.

Your first word is da — not for your father, but for dog. Remarkably, this was also your sister’s first word, except she said gog. I absolutely love this about the two of you, and it will be one of my favourite memories of both your babyhoods.

You are on the go.

You took your first steps at 10 months, and have not stopped since. You rarely crawl now. Last week you learned to stand up in that baby way of sticking your puffy diapered bum up in the air and pushing off the ground with your hands. Currently your favourite thing to do is climb up one stair, turn around, and lounge. You dangle a foot up and down, leaning on one arm. We love to strip you down and laugh at your nekkid babyness — teeny hips, chubby legs, giant belly, curved spine. Ironically, you look like a pregnant woman.

You are mischievous.

You are always in my tea pots. In drawers. In cupboards. The toilet. The laundry. The garbage can. The central vacuum cover. The dog’s water dish. I love to sneak up on you and bark, “Ah-liss!” and watch the look of surprise/terror/deer-in-headlights/busted look come across your face — it’s especially hilarious when your chubby fingers instinctively pop open and you drop said object and try to run. Have you seen a pregnant woman try to run?

You are a shoe lover.

You are in the shoe basket all. the. time. If you are out of my sight, I can almost guarantee I’ll hear the sound of velcro ripping within seconds. What’s up with this? You open and close them, carry them, bang them on the ground, hold them over your head like a frat boy who won a kegger contest, proud and drunk looking.

You are a boy lover.

This morning at the walk-in clinic you toddled over to a chair, laid your head on it, and looked up at the elderly man sitting beside you, batting your eye lashes with a dopey grin. Seriously, child. You don’t dislike women, but you most certainly love the opposite sex.

You are the harbourer of few fears.

I can run the vacuum, the hair dryer, the beaters and you will investigate. While your sister bolts upstairs at the first mention of baking, you love when the hot air from the dyer blows your fine dark hair across your face. I can’t say I’ve ever really seen you scared before.

You are a little sister.

Oh, how you love Lucy. You watch every. single. move. she makes. You want everything she does. Your eyes light up whenever she walks in the room. She can make you giggle with a silly face, and make you cry just as fast by ripping a cherished toy out of her hand. This is an evolving relationship, one that requires diligence, patience and perseverance on all our parts. But seeing you two playing pop-up animals and bonking heads with peals of laughter makes it all worth it. That is the reason there are two of you.

You are making up for lost time.

Our first few months together were hard, little one. You hated, well, everyone. You had an undiagnosed milk allergy for some weeks, and pooped and cried and pooped and cried, repeat. I almost lost it once during that dark time. I had to get help. The recent time change and afternoon darkness takes me back to that time a year ago and makes me very anxious. But now your unwavering smile, your giggles at being tossed in the air, your outstretched arms to come up are the difference between now and then. The difference between despair and delight.

You are my last baby.

When your sister was the same age, I was always so excited to see what was next, and did not take enough time to enjoy the stage she was in; I think subconsciously I knew there would be you, too, to relive all these firsts. While I’m not at all sad to know there will be no more babies, I am sad to see you leaving your babyness behind. At the same time, I don’t want to go back. I want to see you continue to grow and learn and explore, to watch your unique personality develop.

You are my Alice.

Happy first birthday, Doo-Doos.

Love,
Mumma

Possibly related posts:

1. 1 year, a whole new world: Happy Birthday, Lucy!
2. Happy Birthday!
3. Happy Birthday…
4. Less blob, more baby: 2 months
5. The birthday party