We're working on the words, Dude. Would it be too much to ask that you work just a little harder? Because, seriously, I'm growing weary of the shrieking and pointing and frantic babbling that turns into sobbing when I cannot, simply cannot, understand what it is you want. You did wander over to me and say, "Han!" When I questioned, What? Do you want my hand? and held it out, you took it and pulled yourself up onto the couch sporting a grin laced with pride. But I can't get you to do it again. Last night you screamed at me and wiggled your cup. When I said, more juice? you smiled and said, "Ju!" Understand, I'll take ju over ahahahhhhhhh any day of the week.
You're going to be a dental podiatrist. Really. For serious. You are obsessed with your toothbrush and your shoes. You'd sleep with both if I'd let you. At least eight times a day you sit in my lap, grunt, and kick your feet around until I put shoes on you. Heaven help you if they fall off. You sob like your world abruptly turned upside down and all the polar bears in the Arctic tumbled off into space. And anytime--any ole time--that you see anyone brushing teeth you run to the other bathroom to get your toothbrush. If you can't find it immediately you run through the house angrily howling, "Tee! Tee! Tee!" and frantically pointing to your own pearly whites. I'm thinking about instituting a specific teeth brushing time. Kind of like an Islamic call to prayer. We'll all just stop what we're doing, head to the bathroom and brush our teeth. See, when we each do it at various times during the morning, you feel the need to brush yours each and every time. Is there such a thing as brushing your teeth too much? I wonder?
You're also kind of obsessed with showing everyone that you know where your head is. If anyone is just having a normal conversation and the word "head" comes up, you start pounding yours. So, today I had a headache. You start patting your head. I couldn't get Garrett's shirt over his big head. You start patting yours. Can you hand me the Phillips-head screwdriver? You start--well, I think you get the general idea. It's beginning to look like a weird tick. Now if I could just get you to rub your stomach with your opposite hand I feel like we'd be on to something.
Last Christmas we bought a season pass to the ice skating rink. We usually just take the umbrella stroller and you ride around on the ice kicking your legs and grinning from ear to ear. Until now. Your chubby little feet are now big enough to fit in the smallest size skate they have and, while you're impossibly unable to remain upright without extreme parental help, you sure are proud of yourself. And it sure is one of the cutest things I've ever seen in my entire life.
I gotta tell ya, I'm a little sad that my baby appears to have been replaced by this full on boy--this boy who wants to be a big boy so bad. But I'm looking so forward to...language skills, for one. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the day when you can tell me why you have such a personal vendetta against your high chair. Until then, well, I'll keep cuddling my toddler and I'll keep taking han and ju when I can get them.
I love you.
Mama (which, thankfully, is a word you do say. Often.)