Saturday, October 2, 2010

19 Months

Dear Matthew,

We're just gonna go right ahead and pretend that the reason your letter is late is because I've been busy and haven't had time to sit down and recollect all the funny things you did this month and that it actually has nothing to do with the fact that I've been telling people for the last five days that you're 18 months old when, in fact, you've been 19 months old since Tuesday. We're also going to pretend that that wasn't the longest sentence ever. And also that I'm not an airhead who forgets what day it is--for five days straight.

Maybe it was denial. Maybe I refuse to admit that you're on the tail end of being one. Maybe I'm so darn tired of changing sandy poop diapers that I can't think straight. Son, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, please stop eating dirt. Also, please stop picking it up and throwing it onto your head. Come to think of it, can I just make a blanket request that you leave the dirt alone altogether?

Thank you very much for being a little less of a mama's boy, though. Thank you that when I leave you in the nursery at church you only cry for a minute or two instead of, you know, 45. It's been much more delightful to be able to put you down for a good portion of my day and know that you'll find something to play with--a brother, a toy, an unsuspecting golden retriever. But if you wouldn't mind putting an end to the obsession you have with shoving stuffed animals into the dog's water bucket that would be just great. Few things are worse than a sopping wet plush toy staring at me with sad eyes.

Your vocabulary is slowly, ever so slowly, expanding. My favorite new word is, "May-meh!" Which you say with extreme enthusiasm at the end of a prayer and which means, of course, Amen. Whenever we pray together you sit on my lap, stick your hands into my own folded ones, smile, and wait patiently for the part where you get to declare, loudly, "May-meh!" It's probably the cutest thing that's ever happened here on earth.

You're a coordinated little bugger. The other day you and your brother spent a good ten minutes just throwing a ball back and forth to each other. Okay. It was a rolled up sock--a rolled up dirty sock--but it just sounds better and much more sanitary to call it a ball. You also wrestle with him on an almost daily basis and it's hard to tell who has the upper hand. He's taller and outweighs you by a good 12 pounds but you're scrappy. We get six hours a week to ourselves while Garrett is at preschool and, while I think you like the mommy time, you break into the biggest smiles when we walk in to pick him up. You sure do love him.

And torture him.

The sibling rivalry is at an all time height. There's pushing and shoving and hitting and stealing and, sorry kid, most of it is coming from you. Sure, he may not always want to play with you. Sure, he may put hockey sticks and baseball bats across the entrances to the play structure so that you can't get on his swing set. Sure, I might have to remind him often that most of the toys are to be shared and the set isn't just his but, dude, he's exasperated with all the physical violence and verbal tongue lashings he gets in the form of angry baby talk. I'm completely ill prepared to handle this. I was the violent one in my sibling relationship. I smacked my little brother into submission until he was old enough to tell on me and tall enough to scare me and I have no idea what to do with a younger sibling who physically takes on his big brother. Except put you in time out. So that's what we've been doing. And I think it's fair to say that you don't like it. So I'll make you a deal. Stop hitting and stealing and screaming at the top of your lungs and we'll stop having you spend so much time in The Chair.

But don't stop flashing me that brilliant smile full of all those teeth. And don't stop hugging me so tightly around the neck that I sometimes think you might cut off my air supply. And don't stop crab walking and giving the sweetest of kisses. Don't stop having the most beautiful head, the cutest ears, the best dance moves. Oh the dance moves. You are proving, on a daily basis that you've got rhythm and this pasty white family of yours does not. We need a little lot of soul.

You're the soul Little Buddy. Larger than life. Crabbier than life. Happier than life. It just depends on the day. But keep on giggling. Because that laugh, that infectious, hysterical laugh covers all the hitting, all the dirt eating, all the dirt pooping. All of it. That laugh melts this heart every, single, time.

I love you, Baby. Always.


No comments:

Post a Comment