Seventeen months.
One. Beautiful, contagious, addictive belly laugh.
Two. Hours that you nap for.
Three. People who adore you.
Four. Breakfasts that you eat.
Five. Minutes that it takes you to destroy half of the house singlehandedly.
Six. Times I have to put your dummy back in every night.
Seven. Smiles: secret, cheeky, amused, hysterical, sleepy, proud and over the moon.
Eight. Ways you can say no.
Nine. Number of times you will shut a door and lock yourself in, despite becoming outraged that you are now locked in.
Ten. Kisses because when I start, I can’t stop.
Eleven. Items of tupperware that must be emptied on to the kitchen floor at any given time.
Twelve. Mandatory snack times throughout the day.
Thirteen. Thunder of two stamping feet. For stamping when you are really happy. And when you are really cranky.
Fourteen. Words that sound like words but that I can’t understand. Yet.
Fifteen. Ways you aggravate your sister. Actually it’s more than that. But she also cries because she misses you when you sleep.
Sixteen. Toiletries that end up in the bathtub if I ever leave the bathroom door open for even a second.
Seventeen. Months. Of trying to get pregnant and being pregnant. Months that you have been here. I asked Riley today what her earliest memory was and she said it was when you were both babies. Because she can’t conceive of when you weren’t here. I can’t either. Or I just don’t want to.
