She started pooping the moment a story about Ted Cruz came on the radio. Coincidence?
To Annie: this is how you spent the day you turned 9 months old.
It’s 34 degrees, sunny, and finally still after a windy night. You wake at 7:30, your new normal. Over Christmas, we eased you from three naps to two, and you voluntarily tacked an extra hour onto your nights. You drink 8 ounces of formula from a bottle I hold while you lean back against me. Then Dad and I read the paper and work on the crossword while you crawl around the bed, climb us like mountains, stand against the headboard, grab pages from the paper and sling them around, visit the puppy dog and pull out some of her hair, and let us kiss your belly as you wallow on your back. This goes on for some hours.
At 10, I change your diaper and put you down for a nap with a song, and you sleep until 11:30. Then it’s time for another bottle and a first adventure. Dad bundles you up and loads you in the car for a trip to the Farmers Market. He walks you around in the bjorn while our kitchen knives get sharpened.
Back home at 1, you play with blocks at my feet as I paint picture frames for your latest wall art: space-themed prints in keeping with our running joke that you’ll grow up to be an astronaut. (No pressure.) When you tire of eating blocks, you tour around the space, admiring (slapping) your reflection in the piano base, visiting (slapping) the dog where she’s napping, playing with (slapping) your dad’s shoes at the foot of the stairs. We’re big admirers of your self-sufficiency.
You nap again at 2:30 and are back up at 4:15. We tuck you back in your bear suit, strap you into the stroller, and go for a walk in the last hour of sunshine, through the park and the elementary school grounds, then back through a neighborhood street and alley. Back home, you spend some time banging on the stairs, which you can’t climb yet but badly want to. Then you sit in my lap at the bar and watch Dad cook green beans and plate leftovers for dinner. You snack on some bread, drink one more bottle, and then Dad reads you a story, sings you a song, and says goodnight. 7:00pm.