July 19, 2010

You’ve always liked shoes.  Especially your dad’s shoes.  Especially walking around in them.

But you also have recently shown us your affection for socks.  Your dad’s socks.  And you want them on your legs, sometimes over your pants and shoes.  It makes for some slippery stepping on our slick floors, but you’re a careful walker.

You’re pretty cute, Sam.

You’re the baby that lets me slather him in sunscreen.  In fact, you are fascinated by the bottle of sunscreen.  (One night you wanted me to put it on your leg, dot by dot, so that you could rub it in with your index finger.)

You’re getting a little rough these days.  Turning playful tapping into hitting, throwing train cars instead of balls, poking just a bit too hard on my eye (you used to just touch the eyelid gently). 

You’re reaching out, further into the world.  Walking further away from us, walking into different rooms without us.  You walk straight out the open front door now.

You’re throwing bigger and bigger tantrums.  Your dad spent an hour cajoling you into the carseat last week.  I know how hard it is to force you in to the seat, but get ready, because that’s what we’ll have to do.  (I’m sorry, in advance.) 

At the river last week, you sat in my lap for 15 minutes, listening to our conversations with our friends that just joined us.

After your nap one Sunday, you sat in my lap, listening (with alarm) at the raucous voices shouting at the World Cup match.  (There were at least 10 of us in that tiny room.)

Maybe a week ago, it was almost 11, you sat in my lap, listening to the story I read.  I don’t remember falling asleep, but we finally did.

And last night, at the Dell’Arte show, you sat in my lap.  You sat in my lap and watched the show.  Do you know how wonderful this is?  I know, it was the perfect show for you, and the sun was hot, and the crowd was close — you could have taken many other actions.  But you sat in my lap for the show, and I can’t deny how nice it is.  (Thank you.)

Remember that scrunch-face you used to make?  Where did it go?  You change so fast.

You’re a good communicator.  “Boo boo,” you say, when you see a bit of Kesey’s poo on the floor.  (Kesey’s an old cat — I’m not sure if you’ll remember him — and he has a bit of an elimination problem.)  You don’t touch it, (well, you did pick it up that one time, but then we had to wash your hands and oh god, who wants to go through that again?) you just point it out to us to remind us.  You also like to peek into the litter box and say the same thing, and you’re so good to give yourself a foot of space, and to not touch the box at all.

You say “catch” when you see a basketball hoop, and you say “moooon” when you see the moon.  You say, “baaak, baaak” when you see a plum (because we feed them to the chickens) and you say “beeberrery” and “stwehwbehwy.”  And you eat the giant sweet strawberries like a lion gorging on a gazelle.

I let your brothers watch you (it’s so helpful) and mostly I don’t have to come running when you scream.  Because you scream.  A lot.  You scream when they have something you want and you scream when they don’t.  You want to do what they do and have what they have, but you’re a little bit tiny for some of these things, and boy does that make you mad.  We haven’t figured out any words for mad or angry or frustrated.  I better find some good sign language for this.  I admit, we’re starting to tune out your screams a little. 

I’m sorry.

Some day you’ll have the words for this frustration, and I hope that you use them.  I hope that we remember to listen.


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