Dear Kate,

When I think back on this month, I am of the opinion that it is time for you and I to have our first little chat about the concept of things I do for your own good. I'm sure all parents, at some point, say "I'm doing this for your own good," and I'm also pretty sure that there hasn't been a child in the history of the world who really believed it. But now that I've landed on the other side of the parent/child wall, I'm here to tell you that it's true. Some of the things that you detest the most are the very things that I am doing in my attempts to be a responsible parent. It must be true, because I'm sure as heck not doing it for the fun.

The best example from this past month that I can think of would be the ongoing battle we fought against snot. Yes, snot. You caught your first cold this month. I'd been dreading it. I knew it was coming. Everyone we knew was sick, and everyone we didn't know was also sick. I fought hard. I sanitized things and washed my hands and shot dirty looks at the lady who coughed all over you in the grocery store. And in the end, you caught a cold from ... me. We were a sorry pair, but I think of the two of us, I had it better, for the simple reason that I can blow my own nose. You can't, and while that may seem like a small thing, it meant that you couldn't breathe. So I had to do something you hate and get out the nasal aspirator, or as it is affectionately known in mommyland, the booger ball. This device allows the snot to be sucked out of your nose ... assuming you let me get anywhere near your little pea-sized nostrils. You very quickly discovered your hatred for this process and you're smart, so you also figured out that if you thrashed your head from side to side, it would be really hard for me to catch you. And during the day, it was hard. At night, it was impossible.

Being a mom, I'm realizing, has some moments that make Fear Factor look like a tea party, and for my money, one of the best has got to be the middle-of-the-night sick child obstacle course. I'd come into your room at 2 a.m., swerving like a drunk person from sleep deprivation, congestion and general delirium, and determine that in addition to being wet, hungry, and pretty cranky, you basically had no unclogged airways left. So I would get you out of bed, turn on the hall light, and stealthily reach for the aspirator. Invariably, you would see me coming, and start flailing. I'd give it a couple of shots, trying to strike a good balance between getting the stupid thing far enough up your nose to do some good, but not far enough up there to damage your sinuses, and you'd scream. If things went badly, I'd miss your nose and have to start the whole process over again. If they went well, I'd then have the privilege of emptying the snot out of the aspirator onto a convenient surface such as my bathrobe, since I always managed not to have anything else handy. I'm telling you, if this were on a game show, I would definitely win big money and fabulous prizes. But I'm not in this for the glamor. I'm in this for your own good. So please cut me some slack.

Snot aside, this has been a really fun month for you. You have, as predicted, finally succeeded in getting your feet into your mouth, and you suck on your toes quite a lot. Now that you've accomplished that, your goal in life appears to be to kick your legs incessantly. All day long, whether I'm holding you or you're playing on your playmat or sitting in your swing or getting your diaper changed, you kick your legs. I think you're building up your muscles for crawling, which is something you're also quite interesting in doing as evidenced by the amount of time you spend on your stomach, waving your legs and arms around like a tiny, spastic Olympic swimmer and then seeming puzzled when your efforts don't propel you forward.

When you do crawl, I expect to just look up from folding the laundry or something and see you going at it. That's how I learned that you could sit up by yourself. I'm starting to suspect that you secretly practice your new tricks at night in your crib to make their public debuts more dramatic.For the last few weeks I've been propping you up and watching you immediately slump over, so I assumed you just weren't ready to sit up yet. Then last week we had a Super Bowl party at our house and as I was putting pizza in the oven, I glanced out into the living room to see you sitting up in front of our friend Susie like you'd been doing it for days. Show off.

This month, you love to squeal. You've discovered that your voice is capable of great volume, and as I write this, you're in the living room, playing with your toys and squealing with delight about ... something. I have no idea what. But you're happy. You have also continued to like for us to sing to you, and when I got tired of singing Old MacDonald Had a Farm, I started branching out. You're currently quite a fan of songs from the Sound of Music. I picked these because I knew the words to them, not thinking you would latch onto them in quite the way you have, and now I sing "Do, a Deer" about 15 times a day and feel like an idiot. I'm still glad that you like music, even if you do have terrible taste. And I'm thrilled to say that this month, you have really enjoyed being read to. We have started doing a little bed time routine with you at night, and part of that is that we read to you from your little Beginner's Bible that Mike sent you before you were born. We started noticing that you really loved that part of the night, so now we read to you some during the day. Here you are listening to Dan read "The Little Pea," which just came in the mail from my friend, Cara, who wrote on the inside page "To Kate: Welcome to the beautiful world of books." It made me excited to think about all the great books you'll get to read for the first time.
I hope you will love them.

By far the most fun thing about you this month has been getting you out of bed in the morning. Most mornings Dan and I wake up and hear you in your crib babbling to yourself. After a while, one or both of us will come in to get you up, and that is the moment we love the most, because every morning, when we walk into your room and look over the side of your crib, you break into the most ecstatic smile the world has ever known. You are so happy to see us that you kick your legs and squirm and giggle and squeal. We pick you up and you snuggle your face into our necks and we're off on another day together, our little family. And life is grand.

I love you.
Mommy