Belated 22

Dear Matthew,

I didn't forget that you hit the 22 month milestone more than a week ago. I didn't continue to tell people that you were 21 months old still. On the contrary, for some strange reason, when people ask how old you are, I generally just reply, "He'll be two at the end of February." I have no idea why I do this. 22 months is a much shorter answer. So I didn't forget. I promise. It's just that we left on the day after Christmas to visit family and I didn't really blog while we were away. Then there was the whole matter of The Tink (otherwise known as The Great Hair Massacre of 2010) needing to be explained.

So you're 22 months old but you may as well be two because you certainly act like it. You hate having your diaper changed in the morning--a fact which I just can't wrap my mind around--and for the past many months you've given me heck about it. You'd rather be playing. Or snuggling. Or eating. Or anything but getting your soggy diaper removed in favor of a dry one. A few mornings ago, when I laid you down on my bed and started to take off your pajamas, you frowned, sternly said, "No!" and then proceeded to point your chubby finger at me and continue, "Un. Do. Fee." Apparently I was in trouble and you were giving me three seconds to respond correctly. Believe me, honey child, this is a direct result of the ten thousand times a day when I point at you and count to three. Make no mistake. You act like a two-year-old. The tantrums are epic. The tears, Oscar worthy.

If we're at home, you always have drum sticks. Or pencils that serve as drum sticks. Or a whisk and a spatula. Every household item is your drum. You've got rhythm and your moves are excellent. Often, they involve sticking your little bum out and bobbing to the tune in your head. But when we're listening to music, you bob on beat, baby. You are still walking about the house singing, "Ingabeh. Ingabeh. Inga ah beh!" (Translation: Jingle bell. Jingle bell. Jingle all bell. Which, you know, aren't the actual lyrics but whatever--you're only 22 months old.)

Matthew, you love to give kisses, cuddles, wrestle with your brother, ride the dog, chase the kitty, and watch Timmy Time. Except the episode where Timmy wears a mask. That one terrifies you and you break into hysterical sobbing if it comes on. Meaning, if we turn it on. Which we've only done two or three times. Because it's cruel and unusual punishment. But it is super hilarious to watch you dissolve into a puddle of despair because a lamb puts on a paper plate mask. Alright, in fairness, if I saw a lamb wearing a paper plate mask I might be emotionally disturbed as well. You love to have books read to you. You love to eat cardboard books. This is a strange phenomenon because you're not otherwise a very destructive child. You love your sleep and for that reason mommy loves you to bits and pieces.

Well, that reason and the fact that you're delicious. Especially when covered in shea butter. And your giggle is infectious. And the way you say, "Mommy!" is heart melting. And today, when I dressed you in new overalls and a striped turtle neck, I almost couldn't handle how cute you were.

You think you're a big boy. While we were visiting Grandma and Grandpa, you got to sleep in the tent with Papa and your brother for the first time. As I tucked you into the covers you looked up at me, grinned, and said, "Nigh nigh!" The next morning you were still sacked out in the tent when Papa and Garrett got up. Several minutes later, you appeared, holding your beloved stuffed monkey. "Hi!" you smirked. And it was a smile that seemed to say, "I've arrived."

And, in many ways, you have.