Disclaimer: I own nothing. Suzanne Collins owns all.

I learn, as time goes on, that Iris's presence frightens me to death, comforts me, and breathes life into our house all at once. The first time she smiles at us, really smiles, not strange infant movements that look like smiling, I laugh and smile back and immediately have to start making my list in my head of every good act I've seen people do. It is because she brings me joy that she frightens me. Peeta is just as overwhelmed, although he doesn't have the same chronic anxiety that I do. He is overwhelmed in a different sense. The sense of being overcome that people have when they finally get something they've wanted all their lives is what claims Peeta now. I still don't think he can believe that she's real. Overjoyed disbelief and shock is written on his face and in his eyes with that first smile, as she looks up at us from her cradle, chubby cheeks dimpled and blue eyes bright in her toothless, infant smile. From that day forward, Peeta starts recording all of her firsts in our book, noting the date and time, and often sketching a little picture of her.

Even sullen Haymitch is as hopelessly in love with her as we are. We see a lot more of him now. Of course he always drinks, and more often than not is passed out somewhere in his house. But now he's lured out from time to time. Sometimes he just sits with us in our kitchen, listening to her squeak and babble. Sometimes, though, he holds her like we do. Iris in one arm, liquor bottle in the other. We make sure he's sober enough to support her before we hand her over, and make sure to take her back when the level of liquid in his bottle gets too low. He always growls sarcastic commentary to her on the goings on around the house, or on us, as if trying to teach her the truth about the world.

"See, no. No. Drooling like that in public makes you look slow, like your father. No more of that."

"Okay, now watch it when your mother makes that face. She's highly unstable. Best to hide when she does that. Run if she's armed."

We huff at the commentary, but we're all secretly happy under the pretense. I keep making my internal list, Peeta keeps recording in the book.

First time she can sit up on her own. Peeta props her up to look at some of the orange cookies he's just iced, knowing that she likes that particular shade of orange. She waves her little arms, and tilts forward a bit, holding herself up without his hand behind her back. She doesn't last very long and eventually wobbles backwards into his arms. But she holds herself up for a bit, all the same.

"Katniss, did you see what she did?" he exclaims, beside himself with glee.

I smile, keeping the running list. "I did. You sat up," I tell her. She stares at me and gurgles, accomplished.

First time she reaches out and is able to grasp something on her own. I have to tell Peeta about it when I get back home as it happens out in the woods. I'm sitting in a tree with her, idly spinning one of my arrows in my right hand. She's tracking it as it spins, eyes darting around and around with it. She's big enough now that she can support her own head and she now sits with her back strapped to me, looking out. She shakily reaches for the arrow. I can feel my own eyebrows raise.

"You want this?"

She squawks, reaching more.

"You know, most children go for blocks or something first."

She squeals louder, indignant.

"Maybe you really are mine," I joke at her. "Guess I can't get rid of you now. The kid that plays with arrows is too obvious."

I stop teasing her and point the nock towards her, making sure to keep the point far away from her at the other end, enclosed lightly in my hand. She grasps the end tightly, black fletching poking through her enclosed, tiny, pink fingers. She bounces her fist up and down, watching the shaft of the arrow move with her. She releases it and grasps it further up before putting the end with the fletching on it in her mouth, gnawing it with her gums. I let her for a moment before thinking better of it.

"You know, that's probably not sanitary. Let's not chew on the arrow," I tell her as I gently pull it away from her. The feathered fletching at the end is now drenched, strands of feather clumping together. The arrow is still connected to her mouth by a thin little strand of drool.

"Ew."

Iris squeaks happily, proud.

First time she rolls over on her own. She's on a pile of smoothed out blankets on the floor, lying on her belly, lifting her head and shoulders up and watching us as we walk around. She has disinterestedly discarded the few toys we have scattered about her blanket. She watches Peeta pass by with a handful of those icing flowers he makes to decorate cakes. As he passes behind her, out of her view, she deftly flips over in one try to follow him, landing on her back with a little, cushioned thud. She lays there for a minute, eyes wide, surprised at her own agility. Peeta gasps happily, smiling.

"Can you do it again?" he picks her up and puts her back on her stomach. She burbles and flips again, grinning up at him.

The first time she laughs. She's on her pile of blankets again. I'm cleaning game at the table. Peeta is trying not to look disgusted as I skin a squirrel. He whips up icing at the far end of the table, as far as he can get from my skinning knife. Haymitch stumbles in, turning up early for lunch as he does often lately. Iris's happy babbling and Peeta's cooking are enough to lure him out of his house for a few hours. As soon as he staggers in, Iris giggles wildly at him. We all stop to stare at her.

"She done that before?" Haymitch growls, questioning.

"No!" Peeta exclaims, giggling almost as much as she. "This is the first time!"

He rushes over, kneeling by the blanket. I watch, knife frozen. Haymitch puts his arms out, palms up, at her. "What?" he sneers and she explodes into high-pitched, infant cackling.

"Is Haymitch funny?" Peeta giggles at her. Haymitch staggers in further, rolling his eyes, taking a swig from his bottle. She laughs even harder and now I can't even contain it. I start cackling with her. My child's first laugh is at the expense of my old, drunk mentor. I cackle with her each time she laughs, which is pretty much every time Haymitch so much as raises an eyebrow.

"Good god, you two even sound the same," Haymitch mutters, and he's right. Even as high-pitched and squeaky as it is, Iris cackles like I do. I put my forehead down on the table, doubled over in silent laughter, scrambling to make my list, afraid to laugh without it being taken away.

The first time she recognizes her own name. Peeta is trying to get her to look at him as he paints. She's sitting with me, little back to me as always.

"Look this way. No, this way. Iris-"

Her little head turns sharply towards him. We both freeze. I try it.

"Iris."

Her head tilts back shakily, little blue eyes staring at me, upside down.

"You know your name now," I tell her, disbelieving.

"Iris," Peeta says, and she looks towards him, squawking like she does, tired of us both asking for her attention. "Okay, I'm sorry, we'll stop," he laughs. I can't do anything but kiss the top of her head, closing my eyes.

The first time she crawls. It's in the evening and she's playing on her pile of blankets once more. One moment, she's wriggling around on her stomach, the next, she's pushed her little body up on her hands and knees. We figure she's just going to stay there and wriggle around for a week before she figures out she can move forward, like most babies do. But not Iris. She has no middle step. She wriggles for a second, testing everything out, and then she's wobbling off the blanket on her hands and knees. She clambers around the table and stops right at Peeta's foot, looking up at him, squeaking. He stands stock still like me, eyes like saucers. She pitches forward and he finally reacts, scooping her up. The day after that is the first day I can't get out of bed before I've made my list for at least an hour. And we're running to catch up with her from then on.

I start learning things about her, learning what she's like. The first thing I learn about her is that she's unquenchably curious. Iris has to know everything about everything. I suspected this watching her even when she was only a few minutes old. Always looking around, trying to take everything in. Now that she's mobile, she has to touch everything. First, we learn to pad all sharp corners in the house. Iris moves quickly and somewhat erratically and often runs into things. The first time she runs headlong into a table leg, I'm frightened out of my mind hearing her cries behind me. She's immediately in my arms. I dry her tiny tears with the pad of my thumb while Peeta bandages the little scrape on her forehead. Haymitch unhelpfully asks a few collisions later, "Do you think maybe she's afflicted? She runs into things an awful lot. Didn't inherit mom's coordination, did ya, kid?"

We scowl and pad everything at baby-level.

After Iris tips over a full bottle of Haymitch's expensive white liquor, Peeta gives her a bath to get the alcohol smell off of her, and I comb the house, getting everything she could get into off the floor. It prevents some mishaps and some of the crying. Although, she never cries for very long. That is the second thing I learn about her. Iris is tough. All babies cry and she is no exception, but her crying is seldom and she bounces back quickly. She picks herself back up easily. There's a sharp bit of crying from initial shock, a split second of contact from me, or a flash of full-out coddling from Peeta, and then she's wriggling, anxious to get moving again. I think Peeta wishes he could coddle her more. She does enjoy the attention, especially from Peeta, but when she's ready to move, no one can stop her.

That is the third thing I learn about her. Iris is as stubborn as I am. Of all the characteristics to inherit from me. If Iris is unhappy, everyone knows. If she doesn't want to do something, she'll fight to avoid it. She lands a decent kick on my cheekbone on a day that she is particularly adamant about not wearing her socks as she wriggles and screams. Though, to her credit, she stops when I freeze and stare her down. She quiets immediately, doesn't look at me, and allows me to put on her socks with no further protest. I know from then on that she's also inherited some of my sense of self-preservation.

If we're holding her and she wants to be clambering around the house, crawling, she'll squirm until we let her down. A few times, she bucks backwards and Peeta and I, whoever has her at the time, almost drop her. But this stubbornness also gives way to a good determination. There is one day that Iris does not rest until she has managed to drag herself upright, clutching the edge of one of our kitchen chairs for dear life. She starts dragging herself around the house like this, running along any steady furniture edge she can find, clutching it with little, pink fingers. Peeta takes to walking her around the house, leaning over, holding her two tiny hands. I like listening to the things he says to her, encouraging her as she unsteadily toddles around with him.

"Come on, let's keep going. Let's go into the studio, okay? You're doing so well, come on."

She grins up at him, cooing, lifting her legs in odd, acute angles like a little frog. Sometimes, when she stumbles, and she whimpers, he holds her up, and murmurs kind words to her.

"It's alright. Learning to walk is hard. I know. I've had some trouble with it, too. But you can do it, come on."

It was worth telling Peeta yes just to be able to watch him with her. I think Peeta may be the best father in the history of the world. He's perfect. He's unwaveringly patient with her. He doesn't seem capable of getting frazzled on nights when she cries for hours on end, whereas I do tend to waver as the night goes on and I can't figure out what's bothering her. He talks to her constantly, trying to teach her everything he can as he goes about his day with her. And he loves her so strongly it's near-painful for me to watch. I often wonder what my daughter thinks of me, especially when she has someone as attentive as Peeta around. Of course I take care of her, I talk to her a lot in the woods. I don't like to think too much about how important she is to me in order to avoid a break-down. But I also know that I am, by nature, a lot quieter and colder than Peeta. I am not naturally nurturing, only protective. I sigh and hope that she doesn't think I'm too distant with her.

This is why I am not surprised when she speaks her first word. She's been babbling syllables for a long while, mimicking Peeta, and sometimes me. But today is different. I'm putting cut blueberries I found out in the woods in front of her. I've cut them so small that they're nearly mush so that she can eat them. She's getting big enough that it's difficult to hunt with her, so on days she stays home, I try to bring her something back from outside. I'm pretty sure blueberries are a favorite, although I'm not so much a fan of them because we have to clean purple juice-stains off of her every time she eats them. She's not the most graceful of babies, and eating is no exception. She gets the stuff everywhere. Peeta walks over to gather the remaining berries to put them in some sort of sweet bread he's concocting. She watches him gather them up, mouth open, the two teeth she has at the bottom sticking out a bit. He chuckles at her.

"Look at you, you're already purple. And how did you get berry juice on your forehead?"

"Talent," I mutter.

He attempts to clean some of the juice off of her with his thumb. She stares at him for a moment before squeaking, "Daa-dee," clearly and simply. Peeta freezes, eyes wide.

"You hear that, Daddy?" I ask him, enjoying watching his reaction. I watch his eyes shine. She repeats it, pointing at him with clumsy fingers. That's when the tears start, which I was expecting. Peeta has that baby in his arms in seconds flat. He's crying and rocking her and she just smiles when he kisses her cheek and repeats the one word she knows. I put my head in my hands, smiling and gritting my teeth.

There is a day every year that I cannot get out of bed. On the good years, Peeta brings me breakfast, lunch, and dinner to my room. On the bad ones, he can barely leave the room because I need him there to prevent me from breaking in half. It is normally the only day of the year that I cry. I know I am not the only one who hates this day. There are so many like me who lost people on this day. I sit in my room and wish the day would end so I can stop seeing exploding parachutes behind my eyes, stop remembering blue eyes and two long, blonde braids, and a little shirt sticking out of an equally tiny skirt like a duck tail. This is the first year with Iris in the house with us. This year Peeta has to leave, and so do I, to be able to take care of her. I force myself out of bed. I'm shaking and the tears are already flowing as I follow him to the door. Peeta shakes his head.

"No, Katniss, get back in bed."

"No. I can't let you by your-"

"Yes. Come on," he leads me back over to our bed, puts me in it, draws the quilt up to my shoulders. "We'll be fine by ourselves," he assures me quietly.

"Promise me you'll come get me if you need help or she needs something."

"I promise. But I think we'll be alright on our own. I'll bring you breakfast soon."

He sadly kisses my forehead, and smoothes my hair back a little, and makes sure I have a handkerchief in my hand before he leaves.

This is always the longest day of the year. If I fall asleep, I wake up from a nightmare. If I stay awake, my consciousness is a waking one. Peeta always makes my favorite foods on this day of the year, in a feeble attempt to make it a little better. He never makes it in high volumes, though, because he knows there's a good possibility that it'll remain untouched, getting cold on the bedside table. This year, I try to eat a little, just because I know I should. Everything tastes dry and papery in my mouth. I cry myself back to sleep in mid-morning, only to wake up in the afternoon thrashing about, legs tangled in my bed sheets. I hear Iris crying downstairs and feel immensely guilty in addition to the crushing ache I feel every year on this day. I comfort myself with the fact that she'll stop soon, thankful that she's a tough little thing and will probably be crawling around by Peeta in minutes. Except she doesn't. She keeps crying. She hasn't cried this long since she was only a few weeks old. I hear Peeta trying doggedly to calm her, can hear his warm voice murmuring to her. But she doesn't quiet. She keeps going, for at least an hour. I don't know how long she was crying when I was asleep. She always calms down for Peeta. It's me who can't calm her sometimes. There must be something wrong and Peeta, trying so hard to make this day as easy as possible for me, won't come tell me. My limbs feel like lead, like they're glued to my mattress, but I move them anyway. I can't leave him alone with her. I drag myself down the hall, head hanging. I clutch the rail by the stairs like it's a lifeline, but I force myself down the stairs.

I hear her cries get louder as I continue. She keeps saying something through the high-pitched crying. It may be nonsense syllables, but I go ahead and assume it's "daddy," since it's all she knows. She's probably sick, repeating that word over and over, trying to tell him that she feels bad. I've rounded the corner into the kitchen when I distinguish the word she's been repeating over and over.

"Mama," she wails, red-faced, at Peeta. I stop dead, mouth drying instantly.

"I know, I know. You've never gone a day without seeing her, have you? But mama doesn't feel well today, sweetheart," he rocks her sadly. She doesn't relent. She shakes her little head wildly, dark hair like mine shaking with her.

"Mamaaaa," she whines, trailing off into little infant sobs.

"You'll see her tomorrow, little one. But today we need to let her rest. I'm sorry."

He hugs her to him and keeps drying the tears that won't stop. I keep hearing her repeat it, muffled into Peeta's shoulder.

"Mama, I know, I know. I'm worried about her, too." He keeps bouncing her lightly, swaying back and forth.

I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen as that child nearly breaks my heart in two and I cry with her. There is no other day of the year that she could've terrified me so utterly as today. To ask for me when she's never even uttered that word before, and to make it so devastatingly clear how important I am in her little world. To make me remember with a painful sharpness the only other person I've loved this much. She raises her little head from Peeta's shoulder to look at him again. And then she notices me. She squeaks urgently.

"Mama!"

She reaches for me with tiny, wobbly arms. Peeta starts and turns around. His face softens when he sees me sobbing in the doorway.

"She's been saying it since she woke up this morning," he tells me with a sad smile.

"You should've come to get me," I sputter.

"I didn't know how well you would handle it today. You don't seem to be doing so well right now. I was worried about you."

"I'll be fine," I hiccup. As hard as it is for me to even leave my bedroom on this day, it would be harder to watch Iris turn her worried, sad little blue eyes on me and not do anything. She keeps twisting in Peeta's arms, pointing at me and reaching at me. Her thrashing little movement, I've noticed, has made the tail of her little baby shirt pull free. As if the universe is trying to tell me. I would never have left Prim if she needed me. And I shouldn't, and won't, leave her. Prim herself would probably scold me to no end if she found out that I had even stayed in my room for ten minutes while she cried. I cross the room towards her and she keeps repeating her second word, desperate, still red-faced and crying. She makes a muffled little squeal when I finally reach her. I gather her out of Peeta's arms. She buries her tear-covered face in my neck, still wailing.

"Mama," she whimpers, tiny fist clenched around a handful of my shirt.

"Hey, little duck," I murmur to her.

I don't say anything else. I just tuck in the tail of her shirt and sing the same song I've been singing to her since before she was born. Her wailing slows into the little kitten mewls she does. Her hand stays clenched around my shirt.

That is another thing I learn about Iris. No matter how tough she seems, she gets frightened easily where the people she loves are concerned. Like me.

I am shocked when I realize that her first birthday is approaching quickly.

"Peeta. Her birthday. It's in two weeks."

We stare at each other, silent, wide-eyed. Iris lies on her blankets, blissfully oblivious, gnawing on an old, wooden toy I still have from my childhood. I suppose this is what Annie meant when she said everything would fly by. I have just gotten used to my tiny, ruddy, fuzzy, velvet baby and now she's nearly walking. It's been almost a year since I looked down, vision hazy from exhaustion, to see her wailing, lying on my stomach, red-faced and grayish and slippery. Peeta shakes his head, disbelieving. Iris gurgles "daddy," grinning a two-toothed grin at him, upside down. Peeta smiles wistfully back.

"What should we get you for your birthday, Iris?"

"More things to drool on," I provide flatly. Peeta giggles. I crack a smile, too.

"We can each give her something," Peeta suggests, blue eyes brightening like Iris's do sometimes at the prospect. He is obviously unbearably excited about finding something that Iris will appreciate. But I am as well. It's an old tradition in District 12 to put a lot of effort in finding a gift for someone you love that is as meaningful and thoughtful as possible. In a District where starvation used to be uncomfortably acute, the meaning of the gift was always of greater importance than the amount of money spent in acquiring it. I remember being appalled in the Capitol at how expensive trinkets were thrown around, and considered acceptable gifts when little to no thought was put into it. Often people made their gifts themselves. My mother making a dress for Prim for her seventh birthday. My father and Prim together stitching a shooting glove for me when I was young and just learning to shoot. Some of the best gifts a person could give weren't material at all. My father showing me his lake. Prim singing to me in her wavering little voice every birthday. I smile to myself. But I wonder, as small as she is, what Iris would truly appreciate. I think about the things I know she likes. Water. The little wooden cat she chews on now. Colors. Blueberries. Toddling around with Peeta. The lake and the woods. Being with us. I suppose any and all of those things would make her happy.

In the next week, Peeta starts planning a little birthday for her. I tell him we should take her outside for a bit. I can't take her as often as I used to. If she's anything like me, she misses it. He nods agreeing with me. He asks if we preserved any of the blueberries I found just before the first cold snap in the fall. We find a little handful of them, dried and sugared, in our pantry. I have a carving knife in my hand all week. Iris only has a small handful of toys, three or four at most. While I am not of the opinion that she needs a whole chest full of them, like I saw in a few houses we passed through in the Capitol during the siege, a few that she really loves would be nice. I had one I carried with me all the time, the same little cat she chews on all the time. My father carved it when I could scarcely walk. She has a few others, things we picked up around town. A wooden block with the letter "I" on it. A ring made out of rags and tight knots for her to chew on when teeth are coming in. A small, stuffed doll, barely bigger than my hand, similar to the one Prim used to drag around with her. But the one she loves is the little cat. It's scratched up, the tiny carved face worn down with age. The wood is constantly soggy from her infant gnawing. I think she likes it because it's small, it's easy to hold, and it's more interesting than a plain wooden block, or a teething ring. So I work trying to make something like it. Peeta watches me one night as I add details, a little pile of curly, dusty shavings at my elbow.

"You're really good at that."

I shrug. "We used to have to make all of our household tools. Spoons and combs and things. Sometimes things as big as bowls and plates. My father carved the bow I use."

"You could've made that your talent on our tour," he smiles. I think he's excited, from an artist's standpoint, that I show some trace of artistic talent that he didn't know I possessed.

"But it was easier to piggy back off of Cinna. And I didn't really want to share anything like that with the Capitol."

"True. If Portia had let me copy her, I might have. But I'm impressed. I've never been good at carving or sculpting. I'm a bit jealous."

"Peeta, you're an artist for a living. This doesn't come close to the stuff you've made."

"Sure it does. It's done with love."

I roll my eyes, but I smile just the same.

Iris's birthday is a pleasantly warm, temperate day, just like last year. Only last year I was waddling about the house, keyed up and nervous, and twice as round as I was tall. I decide like this a lot better. We cross the hall together to wake Iris. We moved her into her room across the hall when she was around five months old, having outgrown the tiny cradle. She blinks sleepy blue eyes and yawns widely. Peeta gathers her up, grinning.

"It's your birthday, Iris. You're one today, did you know that?"

She yawns again and sleepily peeps one out of four words she knows, which is unintentionally appropriate.

"Cake."

Peeta laughs.

"Smart girl. You'll get cake later, but let's get breakfast first."

I follow Peeta and Iris downstairs. He's already got the oven on. He must've slipped downstairs and put breakfast in before I woke up. I smell sugar and blueberries. If I'm excited about breakfast, Iris must be elated. She proves me right, chirping happily when she smells it. The stuff turns out to be blueberry cobbler. It'll be sweet, and the inside, full of soft blueberries and mushy crust, will be easy for her to eat. She cheerfully makes a mess of it almost immediately. While Peeta goes to find a spoon to feed her with, she beats him to the punch, grabbing a fistful of of the blueberry mush and stuffing it in her mouth, succeeding in getting at least half of said handful on her face and her shirt.

"Don't bother, Peeta," I groan. We are both tired of cleaning purple stains out of her shirts. But if there's a day she should be able to stain everything she's wearing, it's today. We let her happily feed herself, getting it absolutely everywhere. She's messy enough by the time she's done that we have to give her a bath and re-dress her. Iris just giggles about it all. She relishes getting messy. I foresee a lot of grass stains and mud puddles in our future. I make a mental note not to dress her in white again until she's at least fifteen when she'll have the presence of mind not to stain all of her clothes.

Once she's clean and dressed again, we head outside with her. We spot Haymitch stumbling around the pen where he keeps his geese. He waves us over wordlessly.

"Happy birthday, little bugger," he growls at Iris with a thin smile.

"Haymitch, don't teach her that word," Peeta admonishes. Haymitch grins wickedly.

"Don't encourage him," I tell Peeta. "He'd love for her to start repeating that word and I'd rather not hear it parroted around our house for the next week."

"Both of you shut up and bring the kid over here. Sit down on the porch with her."

"Why?"

"Just do it," Haymitch sneers at me. I do sit with Iris in my lap, against my better judgement. Haymitch staggers over to us with something cupped between his enclosed palms, one hand on top of the other. He kneels down by Iris and opens them. A fuzzy yellow and black gosling pops out, sitting wriggly but content, in his palm. Iris stares for a moment, unsure what to make of the little thing. She tentatively reaches a wavering, chubby hand towards it. Haymitch takes her hand, steadying it, and runs it over the gosling's downy head. Iris squeals happily, giggling.

"Hatched this morning. He's got the same birthday as you, kid," Haymitch tells her. She continues to grin, looking between him and the gosling.

"She likes him," Peeta smiles. And indeed she does. Iris is beside herself over the gosling. She won't stop grinning. The next thing I know, I'm sitting cross-legged on the porch, Iris still in my lap, with a bumbling gaggle of the gosling's brothers and sisters waddling around me. I let one nibble playfully on my finger, my other hand making sure Iris is contained enough that her wild, gleeful movements don't catch any stray goslings. Peeta seems nearly as immersed as she. He's got one of them padding around on his leg, little black, webbed feet splayed. He keeps picking them up and putting them in front of Iris. At one point, I make sure to hold her hands as he puts one in her lap. She squeals and the gosling feebly honks back, clambering around on her chubby legs. Eventually, Haymitch rounds all the little goslings back up, putting them back in their pen. Iris looks mildly upset that the goslings are gone, but Haymitch still has the one in his hand, so she's content. In her excitement, she points to the gosling and peeps, "cake!" for the second time today. Haymitch laughs a loud, wheezing laugh.

"It's one of the only words she knows," I explain, defending her.

"No, that's a goose, Iris. Goose," Peeta tells her.

"Cake!"

"Is that what we should name him?" Haymitch asks her, still wheezing with laughter.

"Cake!"

"Guess so. We'll call this one Cake," he rasps, pointing to the gosling. Iris grins. We get up to continue towards the woods with Iris. She gives the gosling a final giggle and Peeta smiles at Haymitch.

"Thank you, Haymitch. That was really nice."

"I thought she'd like them," he grumbles grudgingly.

"She did," I smile. "Thanks."

He nods once and we're off to the woods with her. I take her to the lake. It looks the same as it did last year. Plants all getting ready to blossom, water peaceful and glittering in the sun. The same rogue iris plant from last year has gone ahead and blossomed early. I can't help but smile when I see it. I sit down with her in the grass, near the waterline, right next to it. I pluck one of the petals and hold it next to her eyes.

"Yup. Still just as blue," I smile at her. Iris likes the color of the plant she was named for. She watches the petal as I hold it up to her.

"Do you mind if I give her her present now?" Peeta asks.

"Go ahead," I tell him, curious. Peeta pulls out a sketchpad from the bag we brought. But it's a different sort of one than I usually see him with. The paper is thick, the sheets are large. He pulls out a set of little, covered bowls.

"What is it?" I ask as he begins uncovering them.

He smiles.

"Edible paint."

"She's going to go ballistic. It's perfect."

"I knew she'd end up trying to eat it, so I figured I'd make it taste good. It's a good thing you dressed her in brown. Iris come here, look at this."

Peeta lifts her into his lap, propping the sketch pad, which I realize is filled with thick, absorbent paper used for water-based paints, in front of both of them.

"Will you fill this with water?" he asks, holding up a lone, empty bowl. I oblige, filling it half-way with lake water.

"Iris, watch." He dips her pudgy hand in a bowl of bright orange, her favorite color. He presses her hand against the paper for a moment, and then peels it away. She stares, open-mouthed, as an orange handprint is revealed. He puts her hand in water, rinsing it, before dipping it in red. Iris loves warm colors. He puts another handprint on, overlapping the orange a little. She squeals when he moves her hand, revealing a second, scarlet handprint, and a red-orange section where the handprints overlap.

"You like it?" he grins at her. She babbles at him, elated. She chirps "daddy," somewhere in there. The subsequent hour is a free-for-all. Iris paints with abandon, smearing paint everywhere. Most gets on the page, but a decent amount gets on her face, on her clothes (as always), and some on Peeta's pants. He patiently grimaces at the purple and red that ends up on them. She gets frustrated at first when she mixes too many colors on the paper and it all turns brown. Peeta patiently turns over that page, showing her a fresh piece of paper. She learns quickly. That's another thing about her. Iris is quick-witted. She figures things out as she goes and does it with lightning speed. She learns that some colors, when mixed, transform into new ones. She learns which ones compliment each other. My favorite page in her little book is an infant smear of greens and blues. Her baby-art isn't half bad. She's quite creative until she puts her hands in her mouth and realizes the paint tastes good. Then, she proceeds to eat most of the rest of it. Peeta giggles the whole time as she abandons her craft and crams paint-covered fingers in her mouth. Peeta manages to wrestle it away from her before she makes herself sick. She squawks the fourth and final word she knows.

"No."

"Sorry, paint-time is over. No exceptions," Peeta insists.

"No!"

"Yes," I grumble. "I'm not cleaning vomit out of your clothes in addition to paint."

"No!"

"Come here, you," I growl, snatching her out of Peeta's arms and away from the paints. She's on the verge of a tantrum when I give her what Peeta calls "the look." He says it's the same look I have when I'm tracking game, when I'm about to shoot, or when I've been challenged. I assume it's the same look Haymitch warned her about. I don't really know what it looks like, but Peeta says my chin juts up, my lips thin out, my teeth clench, and my eyes, as he put it, are like steel. Iris gives me a few half-hearted whimpers, but she quells the tantrum. Peeta laughs.

"You're a good mother, but a scary one sometimes."

"Sorry," I mutter.

"No, it's a good thing. She'd be all over the place if you weren't here."

"Come on," I tell her. "You're supposed to be having fun, not having tantrums."

I suddenly have an idea. I think Iris likes water. But other than shallow baths in our kitchen sink, she hasn't been exposed to it much.

"We're going swimming," I tell her. I toe off my boots. Peeta's eyebrows shoot up when I sit her down for a minute and strip down to my underwear. Even having lived with him for sixteen years, I'm still a fairly modest person. But today I don't care. Today is supposed to be a good day and I'm going to make sure it stays that way. I peel off Iris's paint-covered shirt, leaving her in her little trousers. She's still whimpering as I start walking towards the water with her sitting on my hip.

"You coming or not?" I ask Peeta. He's jarred into motion by my question and he follows soon after, also in his underclothes. I wade into the water, stopping at waist-height. Iris's whimpers have stopped. Instead she stares, wide-eyed, all around.

"See? There are better things to do than eat paint," I say. Peeta comes up behind us.

"Does she like it?"

"I'm not sure. She seems more shocked than anything else. What happened to my little tadpole?" I ask her.

"Come on, Iris, you like water. Look," Peeta splashes around her playfully. She blinks a few times before a hesitant smile creeps onto her face.

"That's it. Quit worrying about the paint and have fun in the lake," I tell her. She is fascinated by it, although sometimes I'm not sure if she likes it or not. I suppose it's a little too much unknown for her to take in sometimes. She squeaks when a few stray minnows dart around her feet, smiling. A few tickle my leg, too, and I smile with her. Eventually, she gets used to it and she's waving her little hands around in the water, watching it move. Although I know it is the unintentional product of her waving her clumsy little fists, she manages to splash me straight in the face once. She giggles wildly as I cough and shake my head, my hair now dripping.

"Oh, that's funny?"

She keeps giggling at me as water drips into my eyes from my hair. I gently dump a handful of water over her dark little head. It's not much, as I don't want to scare her. She sputters a little, blinking rapidly, lightly startled. Drops of water cling to her soft little eyelashes. She seems annoyed that I've retaliated. I can't help but start laughing at the clear indigence on her tiny face. She joins me after a few hesitant giggles. She shrieks that high, infant cackle she does. She continues to send splashing water my way now that she's figured out how to do it. I always flick a little bit back at her, although I'm always careful not to go overboard and frighten her. Peeta watches us, looking as if his face will crack in two, he's grinning so hard. I suppose I look similar when Iris's laughing slows and she just stares straight through me, grinning like mad, corners of her little blue eyes wrinkled as they twinkle like Peeta's do. She tangles her clumsy fingers midway up my braid, pulling herself a little closer to me.

"Mama," she chirps, another stray giggle escaping her. She doesn't stop smiling, showing her two tiny teeth on the bottom.

"Yeah, I'm having fun, too," I assure her, still a bit overwhelmed by the amount of trust and love in her eyes. She giggles at me once more, round, happy face still staring. We all stay in the lake until Iris gets a little waterlogged. We climb out and lie in the tall grass, letting the sun's gentle heat dry us. I make sure not to let Iris stay in direct sunlight for too long, though, for fear that even gentle, early-spring sun like this might burn her soft skin. Peeta dozes off for a while, a smile on his face even in sleep, obviously elated. I let him as I watch the sky turn from blue to that same orange he loves. Iris giggles at him as a fly buzzes around him lazily and his nose twitches in sleep. She points to him, squeaking "Daddy" as she often does, looking back at me for reassurance.

"That's right."

She turns her little finger towards me.

"Mama."

I suppose she wants to make sure I know she understands.

"Very good. And you," I pause to pluck a blossom off that one, rogue iris plant right next to us, "are Iris." I show her the bright blue blossom. She looks up at me when she hears her name.

"Iris," I repeat. "That's you," I point at her. She sits, looking at me for a moment before she clumsily points to herself.

"That's right, my smart little duck."

Peeta smiles wider, obviously drifting out of unconsciousness.

"She is a smart little thing, isn't she?"

"She is. Good thing, too, because it would've been highly annoying if you were dull," I joke at her. Peeta laughs. Iris gets a little bored with us and starts plucking petals off the iris blossom I'm still holding.

"Hey, I have something better for you to play with," I tell her. Peeta sits up, interest piqued. I reach in each of my pockets and pull out what I've been working on for the past two weeks. Two little carved toys, the same basic size as the little cat she loves, each standing about the height of my palm. Only, I've carved these both out of bone from a buck I managed to bring down a few weeks ago. I figure it'll last longer than wood, and it'll definitely avoid getting soggy like the little cat, which will make it easier to clean. Plus, I'm paranoid that her chewing on that little cat will result in splinters. The first is a tiny, wide-eyed tree frog that lives around here, the kind my father used to call a spring peeper, named for the chirping sounds they make. It has round eyes, and small, spread-out feet that nearly look like hands. The carved frog sits in my palm, back legs folded under, front feet splayed flat, looking curiously with bright eyes. The other is a fuzzy duckling, with small webbed feet just like the goslings we saw earlier today. It stands as if having stopped mid-waddle, legs far apart and clumsy, wings folded, little, curved neck extended as curiously as the little frog. And it's got a little, curly tail sticking out in the back. I place one on each of her chubby legs.

"For my little tadpole," I set the frog down, and then the duckling, "and my little duck."

She stares at them for a moment before taking one in each hand. She immediately pops the frog's head in her mouth as she stares at the duckling, waving it around in her other fist.

"I think they're a hit," Peeta chuckles. "They're beautifully done."

I just smile, watching her switch the two as she gnaws on a carved, webbed foot and clutches the frog for dear life. She eventually dozes off with one in each hand, passed out against the crook of my arm.

"I guess that means she had a good day," I mutter.

"I'm pretty certain she did. We should take her home, though."

"Yeah. Come on, sleepy."

We cart an exhausted Iris back from the woods in a green-blue twilight. We wonder whether to wake her to eat dinner, but we decide against it. She can be terribly volatile when woken up, and she'll likely scream instead of eating, especially as tired as she is. She barely stirs when Peeta lowers her into the crib in her butter-yellow room. We slip quietly out of her room, Peeta's heavier steps before my silent ones. We aren't up for very long after her. Just enough to eat dinner. There's a little cake Peeta made just for Iris. We decide we'll give it to her tomorrow since she fell asleep before she could make a mess of it tonight. Just before we go to bed, I slip silently back in her room. Peeta follows after a minute.

"Katniss? What is it?" he murmurs quietly and a little worriedly as I stand staring down into her crib.

"It's 11:57."

He smiles, understanding. Iris was born at 11:57.

"She's officially a year old, then."

I nod wordlessly. I think back to my hazy memory of her from last year, dulled by exhaustion and left-over pain. A tiny, pink-red, wailing little thing. Her hair is longer now, her skin a lot less ruddy and thin. She's a bit chubbier than she was, small, flopping newborn limbs growing into stockier, toddler ones. But some things are the same as last year. Her face is just as sweet, eyes just as blue. Peeta is still beside me, as close as he can get, still completely in love with her. I was right. He never has looked away from her since the moment he saw her. I am still staring down at her, just as disbelieving. And I am still not aware that I am crying until Peeta dries my tears.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yes," I answer, wondering what he's hesitant about.

"I know we're only a year in. But, so far...you're glad you said yes. Real or not real?"

I know Peeta doesn't really need to know if this is indeed real. He's only ever asked one more question the same way. I suppose he just likes to ask the important questions this way, just in case. The corner of my mouth twitches up.

"Real."

Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you all for the lovely reviews from last time! I'm done with finals, and they made that last stretch much better, haha. A few of you have been asking how much I'm going to cover in this story. I don't want to give too much away, but rest assured, this story isn't ending anytime soon. If you enjoyed this chapter, or have any thoughts, do pop by and leave a review! Until next time!

~Belmione