15

Dear Matthew,

You are so very teeny tiny and yet, so much bigger than you were when I first laid eyes on you. At 15 months, 22 lbs and 8 oz, and 29.75 inches long you're like a cross between between a lilliputian and a bowling ball. I think it's your tenacity that throws people off because very few people look at you and recognize that you're small. They see your mobility, your strength, and your enormously bright smile and comment on what a big boy you are. But we know your stats. We're raising the next Darren Sproles.

You're larger than life.

This morning, in the grocery store, you were squealing and laughing and getting all kinds of attention. As I pushed the cart I whispered, "I'm gonna get you!" And, without warning, you started tickling yourself and laughing hysterically. I whispered it again, never once touching you, and you set to tickling yourself again. Your little chubby hands wandered down to your belly and up to your neck. Then you shrugged up your shoulders as though someone was tickling the bananas out of you, cocked your head to the side, and let out a hilarious cackle. We continued this routine for several aisles, with you tickling yourself all the while.

About a week ago you decided to fall down. One of your top teeth went nearly all the way through your tongue. You sobbed for, oh, about six seconds. As blood poured forth from your mouth I sprinted to the kitchen--with you in my arms--and unwrapped a popsicle in record speed. I'm surprised you haven't pulled that little stunt again just so you can have more delicious flavored ice. It stopped the bleeding almost entirely and, as I examined the partially severed chunk of tongue, I decided that since it was no longer bleeding I'd just keep a close eye on it and feed you soft foods for awhile. It is almost entirely healed but I figured I'd mention it to the pediatrician today. She informed me that--as I'd deduced (with the help of grandpa and daddy)they don't do anything for tongue wounds. Even if it had gone all the way through they wouldn't have sutured it. Apparently, the tongue is a miraculously fast healing group of muscles.

You walk. You run. You walk backwards. You climb. You follow your brother anywhere and everywhere. You slither down the stairs on your belly so fast it's as though our steps turn into a slip and slide laced with dish soap. You throw balls (better than you almost four-year-old brother, really). You're like a little motor machine. Today the doctor observed you for two seconds and said, "Wow. He's really active."

You. Don't. Say.

I hadn't noticed. I hadn't noticed that every waking moment is spent chasing one of my energy filled sons somewhere or another. I hadn't noticed that I love every second of it and that, in turn, I love collapsing on the couch when you both fall blissfully to sleep at night. We started (and finished in about two weeks which is just a ridiculous character flaw on my part) watching the first season of 24 and I have become obsessive about making sure you're in your crib when I go to bed. I don't know where I think you'd be, kidnapped by presidential assassins, I suppose. I mean, I put you in your crib and you have yet to learn how to climb out but 24 will do a number on a mom's psyche. So I habitually check on you before climbing in to bed and then I watch you on the monitor. I'm like your creepy stalker. Seriously. It's borderline diagnosable. I may need a prescription of Xanax. But all this to say, when I gently turn the door knob and slink quietly into your room, you are a sight to behold. Precious. Cuddly. Sweetly breathing. And maybe 24 has nothing to do with. Maybe I was holding my breath for so long before that I didn't have enough oxygen to be obsessive compulsive about whether or not you were still in your crib. Maybe now that I've exhaled stale air and inhaled fresh I've begun to worry about the things other moms think about. Things like whether or not axe murderers have snuck past, climbed the stairs, snuck back past with a spooked 15-month-old, and gotten out the door without being noticed. Wait. No? Normal moms do not, in fact, worry about such things?

I blame you, Jack Bauer. I blame you.

You are the worst teether. Hands down in the history of the world. I promise. It probably doesn't help that you decided to get, like, all your teeth in a six month stretch. You have ten now which is only slightly less than Garrett had when he turned two. You are absolutely miserable every time you're about to cut a tooth and it seems as though you hold us personally responsible. We're sorry, Buddy. We don't mean for your teeth to hurt you and they are necessary for all that food you like to eat. Which is, you know, everything in sight.

Except broccoli.