It’s hard to believe that she’s the same creature that squirted out into our bathtub a year ago. Probably because she isn’t. That creature slept a lot and had a feeble cry. This creature, on the other hand, regularly needs be be coaxed back to sleep a dozen times a night, and her cry is anything but feeble.
Lisbeth and I spend a fair amount of time marvelling at how different two kids with similar genes can be. Ellen was cautious, but June is fearless. Ellen didn’t gather the courage to walk until months after she turned one, but June has been walking for months. Ellen lost most of the hair she was born with, June didn’t lose a strand. Ellen slept like a rock, but June wakes up at the slightest noise. And so on.
Having a one-year old is a handfull, and it’s easy to get frustrated and look forward to when she’s older and can be left alone for more than ten seconds without tempting fate. But on the other hand one year is an incredibly cute age.
And an amazing age. June hasn’t uttered a single discernable word yet, but she can express herself just fine. She knows what she wants, and she’s plenty capable of telling us what it is.
And, of course, punishing us when we don’t comply.
Not long ago I was talking to an ex-colleague who has one child, and I asked if he and his girlfriend planned to have another. “No way,” he said, “I love my son so much — there’s no way I’d have anything left for a second kid.”
His logic would have made sense to me before June came along. But now I know better.
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