I am amazed everyday at how Norah is growing. She’s not a baby anymore; she doesn’t look like a baby, she doesn’t act like one. She is a little girl. Starting to speak in sentences, to use a fork and spoon, to walk up and down the stairs instead of scootching. She can count to 11 (though she leaves out 10). She can recognize A and B and K and X and H. She knows when she’s looking at numbers instead of letters. She puts her own milk cup in the sink when she’s finished. It seems like lately her favorite words are “by self.”

She sings snatches of her favorite songs, mostly to herself when she doesn’t think anyone’s listening. The best is Ba Ba, Black Sheep, which she sings to herself quietly, like this:

“Ba ba sheep

Wool.

Yessir yessir. Bagful

Master. Dame. Boy. Lane.

Ba ba sheep.

Wool.

Yessir yessir. Bagful.”

She plays by herself, happily, for long stretches of time. All she requires is that I be in the general vicinity. I feel guilty about this sometimes, but clearly, she’s having so much fun. She loves to be nearby, watching and chatting with me as I bake muffins, or peel carrots, or fold laundry. The other night I was making dinner, pretty engrossed in chopping vegetables and not paying too much attention to the game she was playing at my feet. Then I heard her saying, “Smile. Smile,” and I peeked over to see what she was up to. She had taken all the chunky, squarish animal magnets off of the refrigerator and ranged them in an orderly little cluster. She was holding the last of the magnets up to her eye, pretending it was a camera, telling them to smile so she could take their picture. Her imagination blows me away.