January 20, 2010

Your crawl, with the right leg folded under, is more of a scoot and a scuttle. You yell you protest you scream now if we don’t walk with you when you want to walk.  We hold your hands and you lead us forward, most often to those corners of the house we would prefer you weren’t: the broom (you love the broom), the cat food, and especially the cats’ water bowl.  Splash splash, you rival Kesey.

Two of your favorite food started off as flavorful teethers and now with your four teeth are something more like terrible choking hazards.  But if we don’t offer you a carrot stick when your brothers are munching on theirs, then we have to endure quite the loud complaints.

Sam — I love your celery breath.

You’re starting to bear the marks of a near-toddler — scratches, bruises and bumps.  This is a rough age and I’m so glad that you’re turning out to be pretty tough… or at least pretty distractable.

You love light fixtures.  You love the fan.  (You have a sign for the fan, twirling a finger in the air. ) But most of all, you love the outdoors.  Today the wind was blowing so loud, and you stopped everything to watch the trees blow.  Your whole body was still, your eyes to the window, so quiet.

Your dad takes you outside to look at the trees, the animals, the whole town.  You drink it up, I know.  (I wish I took you out more often.)

You love the sounds.  The birds. The frogs.

You startle easily.  Doors opening.  Your name, when you are caught where you shouldn’t be (like tonight when you poured out my water).

You sleep right next to me.  Your fingers in my hair.

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