You're sleeping upstairs in your rocker. I am still in my pyjamas and feeling a little fragile from the stomach bug you brought to the family. I have to say you were a very good patient. A little more clingy and cranky sure, but for the most part you kept smiling and wanting cuddles between the projectile vomit.
You've learned how to clap and watching you bang those chubby little hands of yours together warms my heart. You almost never fall over when you're sitting these days, and you're able to pull yourself to a kneeling position. You hold your hands out when you want me to pick you up. You appear to say Dada more around your father and Mama around me.
My favorite moments recently are putting you to bed after you feed in the night. During the day you're vocal and squirmy and excited and growing. But at night I can pretend that time has stopped and that you will always be my little baby. I nurse you, both of us half asleep. Then when you've had your fill, I pick you up and you nestle your head against my neck, heavy with sleep. I gently sway with you in my arms, breathing you in, a few moments longer than necessary before gently lying you down in your crib.
There will be times in your future that you will be frustrated with me, with the rules I impose which you find unfair, you will fight against me for your independence. And when you yell at me I will be obliged to remind you that I gladly rocked you in my arms at 4am nearly every night for going on 9 months. And I'd gladly do it for 9 more (though feel free to start sleeping through the night before then, really, I'll be ok).