Dear Miss Wren,
You’re 9 months
and one week because your mom got busy old.
One morning you woke up and started nursing, as you do, and you unlatched and just started looking at the milk-producing boob. Then you started flicking me. There was this curiosity in your eyes, like, “How does this thing work?”
And that’s* how I know your dad is Mark Christopher of the House of Oates.
I like the House of Last Name joke a leetle too much.
*There’s also the whole monogamous relationship thing, but you get my point. You’re a lot like your dad.
You also started doing this thing where you’d unlatch and almost pounce back onto the boob. Like you were a little kitten playing with a dead mouse.
You have no problem letting the world know what’s up, especially when you’re mad. You can’t stomp your feet (yet), but you do this thing that’s totally in the spirit of stomping your feet. You put your head down and slam both hands down on an imaginary table like some kind of Jersey princess.
This is also adorable. Notsomuch in 2 years, but I don’t really care right now.
I am obsessed with your furrowed brow game. You give absolutely no fudgsicles…
And you are still absolutely smitten by the Big Kahuna.
Me, you, and O-man are the 3 Musketeers. My heart is so full when we’re all together. You hate getting left behind, and you will straight up giggle when we are laughing just to join the party.
Thank you so much for bringing your ferocious-yet-subtle spirit into this crazy world called the Oates Family
House of Oates.