My 16-month-old is not talking yet. I mean, like, hardly babbling. Considering my first child was starting to speak in sentences by this age and knew how to spell her name by the time she was 18 months old, I'm freaking out. So, I decided that I would try to be her voice and write myself a letter from her regarding the things I think she would address if she could talk. Here goes...
There are a few things I've been wanting to talk to you about.
First of all, can I have your phone? Like, not just to distract me when you've been dragging me around the grocery store for too long and I am trying to tell you that I'm sick of being trapped in the cart like some sort of animal, but to actually have it. Forever. Or at least until you get a new one. If you get a new one, you can have this one back, and I'll take the new one.
Next, I'm hungry. Can I have a snack? And then after I take a bite of that snack and throw it on the ground, will you make me a different snack? If you could just keep repeating this behavior all day, that'd be great. I thought I should put this in writing because you don't seem to understand when I cry and pull on the fridge or take all the granola bars out of the cupboard.
Another thing, I know you joke about having "mommy brain," but I seriously think you should have your head tested because you have asked me what an elephant does at least 20 times in the last week. I know sometimes I just ignore you, but I have shown you lots of times, so I think you should remember by now.
Seriously, give me your phone.
Also, stop putting those rubberband things in my hair. I get really mad when you take them out before bath time because it hurts! And you always say, "sorry honey," but I don't really think you're sorry because you keep doing it. I try my best to squirm away when you come at me with the comb to prevent this terrible cycle of ponytails and apologies, but it hasn't worked so far. I know my hair hangs in my eyes all day and gets coated in yogurt if you don't put it back, but I'm okay with that. I'm a baby. Deal with it, woman.
Oh, and can you really not see me when I put my hands over my eyes? Because you act really surprised every time I take my hands away, but I'm pretty sure you know I can't get out of my high chair by myself, so there is no way I could have gone anywhere. Also, when you cover your eyes, I can still see you. Even though you act like I should be surprised when you reveal your face, I only laugh because I kind of feel bad that your trick doesn't work on me like mine apparently does on you.
Another thing, it takes a lot of effort to figure out how to turn on the TV. I don't appreciate it when you walk over and turn it off like it's nothing as soon as I manage to turn it on. Can't I just relax and watch Doc McStuffins whenever I feel like it? I'm exhausted from trying to put those shapes in the right holes. I know it's just a trick to try to keep me busy. There aren't any right holes, are there? ARE THERE? Whatever, it's probably cuter when I just bang the shapes together anyway.
And don't even get me started on that animal puzzle. I mean everyone knows that hippos and rhinos are practically the same, so why doesn't the hippo fit in the rhino spot? Also, that puzzle always reminds you that you don't know what an elephant does, so I know I'm going to have to show you whenever you pull it out. So, why don't we both take a break and watch some Bubble Guppies? Give me a minute, I'll figure out which button I have to press to turn the TV back on . . .
Do I hear you cutting up an apple? It better be for me. Maybe you are catching on to this consistent snacking thing I have been trying to make happen. And, just so you know, if it's for you, I'm going to steal some of it when you go wipe up the milk I just spilled on the living room floor.
I'm sure there is a lot more to say, but I really want to get a piece of that apple, so that's all for now.
P.S. I'm just going to go ahead and take your phone. I got peanut butter on it earlier, so you probably won't want it anymore anyway.