nine months

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A few weeks ago, Soledad turned 9 months old. It feels like a milestone. Until then, most of her existence had been inside of me.

But at 9 months old, she looks around at the world like all of it’s hers, sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth and charges forward.

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She is still so sweet and happy-natured that it is easy to overlook how stubborn she is becoming. She hollers when you take away something she shouldn’t have been playing with in the first place. She hollers when you walk past her instead of picking her up.

A couple of days ago, she stood up. Without holding on to me, without holding on to anything.

When I mean to tell her, ‘No, stop doing that,’ I make a sound like ‘ah-ah-ah.’ It doesn’t make her stop. She just parrots back, ‘ah-ah-ah.’

Then we both laugh and blow raspberries at each other. Nine months old is a good, good time.

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Last weekend, we all went down to make tamales with my Grandma Mary. David and I had read “Too Many Tamales” to Alice the night before. She took away the wrong message, like she sometimes does, and refused to make more than two. Lest there be too many tamales. Alice is careful and cautious.

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Soledad crawled and laughed and sat on laps, and it was wonderful.

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