18 Months

October 10, 2010

Immediately after I wrote my last letter, I wrote down a list.  I wanted to append my last post with all the things you were doing that I had forgotten to write about.

A month has passed.  The list collected dust.  Now my scribbles don’t mean much to me.  That seems so long ago.

 

A month ago.

 

You’re 18 months now.  You gallop, you jump. You laugh hysterically.  You whine, you demand. In the last month you’ve cut at least five teeth (three molars, two canines that I can see — you won’t let me investigate further).

And boy, your words!  You tackle three syllable words now — basketball, soccer ball, ‘ketball hoop.  Your S words are adorably pronounced with an H.  Hocks, hoccer, houp, hoap, hpoon, and your own name: Ham.  Hoop sounds like soup which also sometimes sounds like poop.  You say sorry when you’re too rough, and just last night, in the tired ride home from your cousins’, you demanded more chips with a loud whine and “bitch!”

 

Hi!

 

You’ll spend more time now eating at the table with us as long as we give you a couple forks and spoons and your cup of water or juice.  But you’d rather get down and follow your brothers around.

Your brothers.

I wish I could write more about them, but have little words to share about Max, and Matthew’s world is too private now to talk about.

Max is in that special time I call “between 6 and 10” which seems to challenge me more than I ever expected. He’s great at soccer, a perfectionist with schoolwork, and just started reading books like it’s his lifeblood.  He has loved you to pieces since before you were born, but will take it out on you when Matthew takes it out on him.  You love him, but are hesitant when he approaches.  He makes you laugh just as much as he makes you cry.  Some days you’ll stand back and watch him play with his things, and other days you’ll reach right in and swipe or scatter what you can.  You two are figuring it out.  Bit by bit.

 

Helping mama on the way home from the river.

 

Matthew is learning violin, picks songs from the keyboard, loves sports, video games.  Get his head stuck in a book and he’ll forget to eat, sleep, pee, and possibly breathe.  He’s a wonderful big brother to you, though sometimes will just drop the game you are playing and walk away to some other interest.  He just turned 11, and last night, at your cousin’s birthday party, he sat with us adults rather than at the kids’ table.  He makes you laugh like no other — deep belly laughs that make your eyes glitter and your cheeks sore.

 

Watching Matthew's soccer game.

 

You say “hand” when you reach up for a hand to lead us where you want to go.  You say “help” when you can’t reach the ball that’s rolled under the couch.  You tell me “couch” and “now nurse” when you want me to do those things with you. You say “watch” or “hee” when you want to see something, and “hup” when you want to be lifted.

You ask “ready?” (weddy) before any exciting motion — launching a toy, going down the slide, jumping off a table (holding our hands), pitching a ball, going to take out the trash.

You love animals.  You say “hi” to the chickens, to the goldfish.  When a dog is being sweet with you, you will lower your forehead on to its fur.  A Sam kiss.  You’ve shifted your attitude towards our cats recently — you love the reaction you get when you pull their tails, chase them from room to room.

“Hi bug” you say to the fly on the table.  “Hi” you say to your reflection.

 

I forgot the sunscreen that day.

 

You’re very observant.  You know the roads around our house, asking about the “beach” when nearing the river.  We mention a beer to the other and you run off to the kitchen to get us one.  You throw things away, your little feet pitter patter as you run to the kitchen with bits of trash you find in the house.  You say “mmm hmmm” when you don’t want to bother with yes.  You know that eggs come from chickens and we eat them.  You will eat a whole fried egg.

You throw, catch, swing and hit the ball.  You throw the bat down and run across the room.  “SAFE!” we yell.  You laugh and start all over.  You swing and miss the ball, or you pitch and we hit the ball.  You run across the room and stop, looking at us expectantly.  “SAFE!”

You know loud, wet, heavy, hot, cold, dirty, yucky, broken.

You know go, watch, catch, throw, push, run, walk, sleep.

You know hurt.

You know up, down, outside, inside.

You know poop, pee, and throw-up (the cat).

You know juice (juish), water (waadder), food (huud), cookie (coocoo).

You know truck, bus, bike, car, train, garbage truck.  But most of all, the school bus.

You know rain, wind, moon, sun, beach, river, ocean, rocks.

You know mama, dada, baby, brother, amma.

You know horse, dog, cat, chicken, frog, elephant, bird, owl, spider, bug, fly, fish, duck, so many others, and “brown bear brown bear what do you see?” (it’s a book).

You LOVE books.

You know more than I know you know.  You understand what we are saying when we explain.  You overheard me say I couldn’t find the phone, and you brought it to me from behind the living room chair.  You told me a long complicated sentence, and then said “I’ll go get it,” and headed for the house.  I stopped you when I realized you were going to go get the bag for the tent I was folding — I had moved the bag since you last saw it and didn’t want you to feel confused.

You are confident enough to go walking room to room without one of us with you.  So you pull a toy along on a string and make laps around the house.  We only notice when you stop making noise — most often you’ve become distracted by the toilet now that you know how to flush.  You are confident enough to walk out the front door.  We can send you into another room on a mission — go get us a new diaper from the diaper bag in the bedroom — and you come back and toss it to us.

You grab my hand and Max’s hand and pull us to the middle of my office.  Ring around the rosie… and you collapse to the floor on the fifth word.

You are a little boy now, but still so much our baby.

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