As my baby bunny slips through my fingers

Remember when we necessarily rushed through Bunny's first birthday?  That was a blight of unfortunate timing.  I had class, and Mr Renn and I played our weekly game of ships passing in the night.  We quickly, and long after her tired eyes had come, did a birthday cake and a present that night.  Then, as soon as she'd had a chance to smear frosting all over herself, I whisked her off to a bath then her anxiously desired bed.  It was shamefully anticlimactic.



The thing is, Bunny doesn't care that she's been all the way around the sun.  I'm the one who's sentimental and certainly the only one who mourns how incrementally less celebratory each successive child's birthdays are able to be.  But really and truly, most every moment of every day is spoken for in my life right now.  Special occasions and their accompanying obligations are kind of like wrenches thrown in my barely functioning systematized engine.  Deep down I am a magnificently celebratory person, but in a world of finite time and energy, it doesn't actually take much to scrooge me over.  It makes me grateful that I can affirm that our current state of overcommitment is temporary.  Even if it's a rather long form of temporary.

So, baby girl, I'm sorry that your mom was in the thick of grad school on your first birthday.  You were an exquisite little sun spot regardless, and you are the most whole-hearted daddy's girl I've ever seen.  You don't mince words, you will take Mr Renn over me any moment of any day, and you've got him wrapped around your little finger in that absolutely universal daddy daughter archetype.

But, since I'm home more than he is, you settle happily enough for me most of the time.  You love to play peekaboo with the curtains.  You are thiiiiiis close to standing on your own, and if you can reign in your straddle you'll be walking soon too. Our gentleman is constantly wanting to hold you, even though you are nearly as big as he is.  I forget how remarkably comfortable you are hanging out with your brothers until I try to leave you with or near anyone else and you dissolves into a fit of separation anxiety.

Also - on the one hand, dressing a girl is so much fun.  On the other hand, dressing a girl is so much work.  I keep forgetting that I should be doing her hair, and playing the "keep track of that bow, and those shoes that she's likely to drop anywhere at any time" game.

To state the obvious, Bunny is the apple of everybody's eye around here.  It's sometimes like our immediate family exists only to bring together her most ardent fan club members.  But still, she's clearly decided to give the backstage full-access-to-my-heart pass to her daddy.   I'm not saying I'm jealous, except how can I not be?  Everybody wants someone to look at them the way she looks at Mr Renn.