The Finley Files: A Vast Vocabulary

Dear Finley,

You are fifteen months old. You walk, run, dance, twirl, and attempt to jump, which really means you tense up your body and then hover on one tip toe while growling ferociously.
You love bananas but hate eggs. You are a burst of energy from the moment you are awake until you finally are forced asleep. You're sleeping from 10 P.M. until about 8:30 A.M., and I'm not complaining.
You still sleep in my bed, scrunched on one side with your face in a pillow until the sun comes up, and then you nuzzle into my neck until you finally slap my face and say, "Bup!" (Up.)
You can tuck a fake phone under one shoulder while using both hands to destroy a cardboard box. You're so talented!
I grabbed a camera to film you showing off your tricks, namely your growing vocabulary. Now, it may sound like you're saying the same word over and over in this video, but as your mother, I guarantee there are subtle differences! After all, I hear these four words probably fifty times each in a day.
Listen for "apple," "hippo," "purple," and inexplicably, "meatball." These four words are the center of your vernacular, and really, who needs any other words? You also show off your meowing, growling, kiss-blowing, and the "cute face" that GiGi taught you, which is unfortunate because now I cannot resist you.



In the past six weeks, you have changed immensely, and I lovingly call you Raptor Baby in those moments when nothing pleases you. It's a daily war for balance: your will versus mine. Some battles you win, and others I win. I have a feeling this is how it will be for the next, oh, eighteen years or so. And that's okay.
I never stop working on my own things, though, despite the guilt that sometimes accompanies ignoring you for ten minutes while I hurry and jot down a song, a chapter, random thoughts. This might drive others nuts, that I would dare let my child suffer and wail while selfishly brainstorming an arbitrary situation for a novel that never seems to be finished--but when you are a grown woman, I hope you always work on your projects, your dreams, even when a little one hollers at your feet for more baby cheetos.
I love you, little fish.
Love, your Mama.