Ten months

Zoe Scarlett Spitzer

Ms. Scarlett.
Ms. Pitsa.
Zoebot.
The Zo.
The Zone.
Zooone bop (to the tune of MMMBop).
Monster.
Zoasaurus.
Sue (pronounce Sueey).
Kitty.
Punkin.
The baby with a thousand names.
My sweet little lady love muffin (*blows raspberries on any available surface of her body*).
The preceding are all names diverse people in her life have come up with for her. I love that she is loved.  She is easy to love.
One that warps me into user of all cliché and often irritating mother sayings like My Pride and Joy (Even with hard deliberation, I am unable to come up with something that simple and explanatory.)

When you have your first child, everyone wants a say in it. Mother’s assure you that __month or __month is the greatest age.
Every month she turns is my new favorite (st)age.
Every month is like opening a gift bursting with new treasures to love about her.  Every month effaces what I thought I knew and replaces it with new.

Ten months has been beautiful. I don't mean to spin this post sappy with sentimentality, but? Her daily strides astonish me. I am stupid because I don’t always readily realize how smart she actually is, she proves herself a product of her hyper-inquisitive character and nurturing.
This weekend we cut up some of the angel hair pasta I was preparing for dinner. It was a first for her, she seemed to enjoy it as much as her father and I enjoyed watching it.

Oh.  So that's how you ate so fast.

Bath time for the pasta-crusted girl.  This is an activity wherein she is constantly out to demonstrate that she's a big girl now.  Too big for her baby tub, too big for her hooded baby towels, so I share mine with her.

Freshly dry and dressed, she instantly finds my cup of water and tries to drink it before I can stop her, resulting in a second, less productive bath.

Let's avoid wardrobe catastrophe for a second and be a nakie baby.