Dear Esme,
Your main interest in life seems to be giving me heart
attacks. You cannot ambulate on a flat surface, but you see no reason why you
can’t do so down a flight of stairs. God forbid we attempt to carry you down
the stairs or make you go down belly-down feet-first.
You like to head-dive off the edge of couches, suck on the
ends of bottles of toilet cleaner, and today you noticed I was mopping and
immediately slid over to lick the soapy floor. You specialize in finding trachea-sized
items despite our childproofing attempts—small shells, fake coins, lego pieces,
marbles—which you then enjoy rolling around in your mouth mysteriously until
someone freaks out and makes you spit it out.
We got through three kids without needing gates for the
stairs or covers for all the sockets. Now I’m figuring out why those were
invented.
Love,
Mommy
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