Year 2: Week 2

Dear Zayde,


This week I learned that I am photogenic. Mommy hired a professional photographer to work his magic one afternoon at the beach. His name is Ricky, and he and Mommy went to high school together about a million years ago. Before we set out, Mommy packed a few outfits for me because every photo shoot requires costume changes. I learned that the "golden hour" occurs when the sun is low in the western sky, and that's the best time to capture the warm hue of my milky skin and the brilliance of my blue eyes. I learned to pose for the camera, to look straight at the lens and think deep thoughts so as to communicate my philosophical nature with a certain gleam in my twinkling eyes and the nuanced shape of my slightly pouting lips. The photographer was adamant about making me smile: he made goofy faces, quirky noises, and even clapped his feet together as he lay belly down in the sand and aimed his fancy camera at me. I threw him a bone and smiled for a few shots, but we all know that fashion models don't smile in those magazine ads. It's all about portraying a sophisticated image to meet the demands of a discerning market segment. I'm not sure what product we plan to sell with these photos, but I can guarantee that the discriminating baby will understand that she needs whatever I'm peddling.

This week I learned that Mommy has been holding me the wrong way. That's why her back and legs and hips hurt all the time. She's supposed to hold me with both arms and keep me centered against her chest and tummy, but she usually flings me onto her left hip so she can "do things" with her right hand. What she doesn't understand is that holding me is "doing something," and she doesn't need to multitask so often. Of course, if she puts me down while she's trying to clean up from lunch or make a phone call or empty the dishwasher, I will protest loudly and with emotional vigor. She's just going to have to figure out how to both hold me whenever I want and complete household tasks simultaneously.

Speaking of being held, this week I learned that sometimes I want to be held, but at the same time I want to be put down on the ground. Often, I want to be held by Daddy, but I also want Mommy to hold me. This is similar to the times that I want to hold my toy and hand it to someone. I enjoy the give-and-take, but mostly I enjoy having all the toys in my grasp. Or spread out all over the floor.

On Saturday, I celebrated the last of my birthday parties, and I learned that Mommy and Daddy's friends give excellent gifts. Auntie Lisa gave me a doll that came from a head lettuce or something like that. Apparently all the grown ups in the room (even the boys!) had one of these dolls when they were kids in the 1980s, which I think occurred in ancient times, like when the pyramids were built and when fire was discovered. One of Daddy's more forward-thinking friends brought me a stuffed dog that can hold an iPhone in its tummy. Mommy downloaded more apps for me, and now I can learn about shapes, numbers, and letters while interacting with the dog. This had led to my understanding that I am a true child of the 21st century, unlike my aging and retro-minded parents. So far, my favorite gift from that party has been a set of colorful gears that Auntie April said is my introduction to simple machines. I don't know what she's talking about, but I do know that the gears move each other, can be separated, and taste great, so I'm a fan.


Simply,
Zelda