The other day, Daddy and I were juggling your wiggly little self in Sacrament meeting, and over the thrashing and flailing of your little blonde head, our eyes met. "Why did we ever teach this kid to talk?" Daddy mouthed, and I rolled my eyes. Once upon a time, I'm told, maybe you didn't talk much? Can it be true? It's hard for me to imagine because now, less than three short months since Early Intervention started coming to help you with your words, we can't get you to shut up.
Should've known; you're my kid, after all.
It's downright amazing to see the change, little son. It's like one day you realized, huh, if I say "tootie" and they hear it, they understand me and hand me a cookie and BAM! That was the end of our quiet little dude. I doubt very much if I could list all the words you say on a regular basis now, but just by way of proving my point, you moved from saying, oh, maybe 3-8 words in early October to the following list: Mama, Daddy, Addy, doggy, teddy, wubby, ball, car, cookie, please, up high, bye bye, hello, hi, uh-oh, down, up, shoe, sock, hat, eye, nose, cheeks, cheese, please, thank you, no, light, wow, bubble, kick, ew, owie, poop (that one's a real crowd pleaser), airplane, throw, crash, in, on, Nana, Pop Pop, Mim, Aunt B, fishie, food, and your very favorite-- yep, yep, YEP! You make all kinds of animal and vehicle sounds, (is that a boy thing? vehicle sounds?) and you imitate us when we count to ten. Your most popular party trick, though, is your perfect and energetic referee arm signals when we call out 'touch down', 'first down', and 'incomplete'.
You're daddy's kid, after all!
You are big and tumble-y and snuggle-y all at once, little man. You fill out our family with your squeals of delight and shouts of displeasure. You come running to me for a kiss for your owies, and toddle away again, grinning widely through the tears.
You have a funny little habit of putting all kinds of things on your head and then holding very still, calling out "hat! HAT!" until someone notices your amazing feat of balance. Look at you, son! Maybe we should get you a unicycle and prepare you for halftime shows.
By the time you read this, no one will probably remember references from Arrested Development, but I'm going to use one anyway. When we tell you no or take away some (usually breakable or sharp) object that you shouldn't have, you wheel around, drop your head and round your shoulders, and wander off dejectedly, just exactly like George Michael from the show. It looks like this:
and here's the secret: even though you're sad, it's freaking hilarious.
You are a treasure, my darling. We can't remember what life was life without you, except for this: I bet I did a lot less laundry.
I love you, son, to the moon and back.