Dear Kate,

This morning I've been sorting through the pictures I've taken of you this month to pick a few out for your letter, and I have to say it was a little frustrating. This isn't because there weren't plenty of cute photos, but rather because almost every one I liked was blurry. A casual observer looking through the photos of you on our hard drive might think that some time around June of 2008, I developed a tic that prevented me from holding a camera steady, but that isn't it. So what happened? You started to move. And when I say that what I mean is that you never stop moving. The impact of this on my photos is that any given series starts with you a few feet away, then continues as you get closer and closer to the camera and ends with a blur of your face and hands as you finally reach me and put the lens cap to the camera in your mouth.

The effect on the non-photographed part of our life is that I am spending a lot of time pulling you out from under furniture, fishing pieces of lint and other undesirable objects out of your mouth, and generally using the word "No" a lot more than before. It's surprising how much you can get into, because you aren't really "crawling" in the classic fashion. You are doing what my mom describes as "unching," a strange, inch-worm-like maneuver involving scooting around on your stomach. It looks terribly uncomfortable, but you seem to like it. Every day, you spend some time on all fours and I think maybe this will be the day you "really" crawl, but then you just get back down on your stomach and scooch off to your next project.

As a result of this, I am developing a new kind of listening philosophy that I would describe as "no news is definitely not good news." Meaning that if you are babbling, laughing, or fussing while you go about your business out of my line of vision, things are probably OK. But the moment I realize I haven't heard you for, say, 20 seconds or so, I pretty much know you're into something. This audio surveillance technique is in effect at all times, just to warn you. This morning, I was in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when it occurred to me that I was doing so in silence. Sure enough, when I looked around the shower curtain, you were nowhere near the nice little pile of toys I had left for you to amuse yourself with while I was bathing. Nope. You were doing a detailed inspection of the base of the toilet. With your face. Note to self: Step One of new showering strategy is "Set up playpen for baby."

This month has been really busy and filled with lots of family and friends, which is always a good thing. Your Aunt Audrey came to visit us in June, and you totally fell in love with her and her shiny shiny cell phone that she let you play with. Here you are with her.

We just came back from a trip to Mississippi, where you were endlessly entertained by your Gam. Really, the two of you are quite in love with one another. You got a little clingy to me on the first day of our trip, but we discovered that if Gam went and got you up from a nap without letting you see me, you were happy to hang out with her for hours at a time. This revelation meant that your dad and I got to go out a couple of times, including once to a movie. Outside the house. In an actual movie theater. With popcorn and everything. I have never been so excited to pay 15 bucks for snacks. We went to see Wall-E, because we are huge Pixar nerds. Since we didn't have a car, Aunt Hannah had to drive us into town and drop us off, and it felt like going on a "date" in junior high, when your mom drops you off at the front of the theater and you see a rated G movie and then go to Chick Fil-A on the way home. It was a great date, and when I rushed out of the theater at the end to call home, certain that you would be a hysterical wreck after three hours without me, I heard you squealing and laughing and having the time of your life with Gam. I admit, I felt a little sad at how much you were not needing me. But I think I can get used to it.

I'm starting to think we need to get you some little musical instruments to play with, because you were completely enthralled with the piano at my parents' house, and when your Aunt Hannah started playing her guitar and singing you silly little songs one afternoon when you were being grumpy, you were fascinated. You also spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get the strings into your mouth, but I'm sure all future musical prodigies do that when they are teething.

You've got two teeth now and you recently discovered that if you hold your Cheerios in just the right spot, you can crunch them up with those two teeth. There may be a less efficient way to eat Cheerios, but I can't think of what it is. Still, I'm not complaining. At that speed, you can eat Cheerios for a loooong time. We basically survived a flight from Albuquerque to Houston by going "Hey, look, here's a Cheerio! And oh! Another Cheerio!" Eight-hundred crunched-up Cheerios later, we landed. I hope they had a Dustbuster on board.

In spite of all the eating, you are still kind of little for your age. Several people on our trip guessed that you were six or seven months old, and at your nine month check up, you only weighed in at 16 pounds and 4 ounces, which puts you in something like the fifth percentile for weight. But your doctor says as long as you're growing, which you are, it's OK for you to be little. And I agree, because you're changing so much that I can see clearly that the day is coming when you won't be a baby anymore. Some days, I'll admit, that's a comforting thought -- today, for instance, you are teething, and are behaving as if the mere task of breathing oxygen in and out of your lungs is more than you can contemplate without screeching in annoyance every five seconds. It is a little much.

But last week, when we were coming back from Mississippi, we got on the last airplane of our trip, and you fell asleep in my arms during takeoff. Usually on a plane, I have a book and an i-Pod all ready to go to pass the time, and the thought of just sitting perfectly still without one of those things would sound like some kind of punishment. But you were so beautiful and sweet, sleeping with your face turned toward me and your cheeks all rosy, and right at that moment, I didn't want anything but to sit there with your dad and hold you and try to forget how quickly you are growing up. Slow down.

I love you,
Mommy