Dear Reese,
You are now the size of Merlin, or bigger. They weigh you at your 9-month check-up this afternoon: 18.44 pounds and 28 inches. Perhaps that’s why you feel emboldened to chase Merlin down. Not that he’s much of a chase: that silly kitty treats you like family now and is always in your face. Though I don’t try to pull out his nose fur with a fist. He loves you and allows it.
I almost cancel your doctor's appointment today since you are sick again. Then I come to my senses and remember that you’re supposed to go to the doctor when you’re sick, so this is good timing. You wake up with a 102.5-degree fever and I stay home with you, crunching in a little work in the morning and during your afternoon nap. But, predictably, I feel a little sick too.
The Tylenol takes the edge off for you and I try to combat your fussiness and boredom by building towers of blocks and books all over your playmat. It is a 5-minute distraction and then there’s the rest of the day. But we wash all the sheets in the house and call MorMor and read books and the day passes. You nap for two hours in the afternoon and are so distraught when I have to get you up to get ready for the doctor's visit that for a moment I worry there’s something really wrong. I give you more Tylenol and you sleep again on the drive. By the time we’re at the doctor, you’re more yourself.
They give me a sheet at the doctor with your weight and height and then bullet points of notes about nine-month-olds. Things like: I should watch you around streets and water because nine-month-olds are very curious; and that accidental poisoning is very common from nine months to two years so I should keep the laundry detergent, cleaning supplies, and medications out of reach.
Right now I’m more concerned about the paper you want to eat. My bathroom door stopper, a book, now has its cover bitten fully off. Yesterday I pulled the bottom half of a paper bookmark off the roof of your mouth.
The doctor asks if you’re standing without my support by holding onto something and I say sometimes, but not often. Then I amend myself by saying you pull yourself to standing in the bath every night. He looks appropriately shocked and echoes the sentiment I had when you first did it — the bath is the last place you want to be practicing that skill. Slippery. Potential head injuries. But here you are, doing your best to get to your feet again tonight.
It’s in the bath we pick up Part 13 of “The Castle in the Pond”. Last night you passed out after a kick to the head from the malevolent black swan (after you decided to bite his foot rather than stealth to safety after the collapse of the Beaver Dam). Now, you wake to your friend the duck in your face. Right — you thought you saw him swimming to save you before it all faded to black.
As your vision adjusts you see you’re back in this pocket of safety with the snapping turtle, The Fierce Croc, and now The Great Bullfrog.
“Croak. That was reckless little one,” The Great Bullfrog says.
“Saving you?” you say, a little bit angry. “Are you all going to let this kingdom fall.”
There is quiet. The pond creatures all look serious. The Great Bullfrog says, “Without my magic, there is little we can do. Unless you have magic we don’t know about.” She glances at the gardening trowel by yourside.
“I didn’t even know it was magic,” you say.
Then you ask where her magic came from and she says her father. The snapping turtle, who knew him, says, “He talked about getting his power from a place beyond the pond. A place of blue light.” '
“Will you go?” you ask The Great Bullfrog.
“No,” she says. “I am too weak without my power and our escape from the dam took everything out of me.”
You nod. “Then I will go and find your power so that you may keep your promise to me. Will anyone join me?”
The duck is quick to say yes. Then, to your surprise, The Fierce Croc, still tailless, also volunteers.
“We’ll set out in the morning,” the duck says. “For now, rest.”
Love,
Mama