Seventeen months already
Dear Michael,
I am beginning to wonder if you'll quit teething by the time you leave home to go to college. This has been a long month, full of crying, biting, and sleeplessness. But you have two new molars, one on the top right and one on the bottom right, to show for your troubles. I can't help myself, and love to rub your swollen gums; the rest of your teeth are so close to popping out that I can feel every ridge and indentation. Your new teeth are like little razors -- so sharp that it seems they could slice the tip of my finger right open as you chomp down, the way you like to do.
You are summer's golden boy; you are my sweet baby. Mr. Personality. Already when you walk into a room, you light everything up. Strangers on the street stop me often to tell me how beautiful you are. People that don't stop will smile at you as you scream "TRUCK!!!" at the top of your lungs and practically fall out of your stroller to get closer to these things of beauty. As we continue on our way, you make your truck noises and turn around to catch the last fading glances of the truck. Lucky for you, we live in Montana, and so there is no shortage of trucks -- ever.
Later this month, there is a monster truck rally out at the fairgrounds. I certainly never envisioned myself planning to attend one of these meccas of American white trash, but I've already looked into tickets and I assure you, we are going. We're also going to go the day before so we can meet some of the drivers and sit in the monster trucks. I don't know if you'll be able to handle the excitement. I'm not sure if I will be able to either.
It has been a quiet month. It's hot, and you feel terrible. We mostly stick to our little routine. We have lunch, and then spend several hours out in the backyard where you play in the sandbox, and drive your trucks through my flowerbeds. You love to help weed, but you aren't very good at differentiating between weeds, flowers, and grass and so a lot of the good stuff has been ripped out of the ground by your pudgy hands. But it's o.k. because it seems that no matter what you rip out, you bring it over to me and announce, "Rower!" and squish your little nose up and sniff, sniff, sniff as you shove the weed/grass/flower up my nose so I can smell it too.
This month, as the heat became unbearable, you and I wiled away the afternoons sitting in our hot tub, which was filled with cold water. Our "pool" as you call it is just big enough for you, me, and approximately 3,000 toys. But the one that you spend most of your time with is your "nik" (a drink to those who don't speak your little language), and popping the top of it on and off and filling it with water. This activity has passed dozens of hours in the last month, and has made me wish I would have realized what a fantastic toy your cup was long ago.
After dinner each night, you and I go into the backyard where we pick raspberries, and you shove them into your little mouth as fast as I can find them. I think I've been able to consume two berries the entire summer and they're my favorite. I never thought I'd share them with anybody. But I think you love them more than I do.
After our baba hunt and some more playing, it's inside for a bath and bed. Your dad has been home more this month, and he has been on bath duty as I run around the house and put away every single toy you own and every single book possibly ever printed for the under-two set. Then, the three of us sit down and read books before bedtime. We always end with "Good Night Moon," and you know your cues: you say "hush" in your best whisper to the "old lady whispering hush" and "Night night" at the end of the book. Then you and I climb the stairs together, with you always holding onto the bannister, and we rock for a few minutes and sing, and then I put you in bed for the night. I place you in your crib on your back and instantly you roll over and put your butt up in the air, which is often the position I find you in as I check on you throughout the night.
You're really talking now. There are fewer nenes and babas in the world. Now you repeat nearly everything that we say; you're getting so good at getting the sounds of words right. You can tell us what you want and why you want it. I think you find communicating enormously satisfying. I can almost see smug happiness on your face when we hand you something you've asked for.
This month, I saw you use your imagination for the very first time. We were downtown, splashing in the little stream that runs through the walking mall when you picked up a pine cone, (A ditty!, as you like to call them), launched it down the stream, and said, "Ooh hoo" which is what you call a boat (after the sound a boat makes in "Moo Moo Goes to the City". What haven't you learned from Moo Moo?) It made me so proud, my creative brainchild, my future Picasso, Mozart, or Degas. I envisioned you changing the world with your art and your imagination, leaving a legacy of beauty and genius. It's amazing to me how much I want for you, how much I believe that you are truly the smartest, most creative child ever born, and that your intelligence, and your thoughtfulness, and your artistic vision will leave the world a better place. But that's just me. Your dad doesn't want an artist; he wants an NFL player instead -- mostly so he can have season tickets to games, and so that you can pay off our student loans.
Our big trip of the month was to Whitefish for a few days. You had what might have been a religious experience at Whitefish Lake. As we hiked down to the shore, and the lake first came into view, you just exclaimed, "POOOOLLLLLLL!!!!" and started squealing with delight. Whitefish Lake puts our outdoor pool (the hot tub) and our indoor pool (the bath tub) to shame. Not only is it the biggest pool you've ever seen in your life, but it had rocks AND sticks there. Plus, we caught a frog. Holy sweet Jesus; I don't think there's anything better in the world. It was freezing (nothing like a mountain-fed lake), but you ran into the water like a little trooper, and stayed in with your bottom lip quivering and your body turning blue, until we forced you to get out -- screaming the whole way back to the beach. I think I could have stayed on that beach forever, but after throwing rocks into the lake for a while and poking at things with sticks, it was time to go home for a snack and a nap.
What it all comes down to is this: For you, I'm willing to give up all my raspberries. For you, I'm willing to attend a monster truck rally. For you, I'm willing to give up a day at the beach so you can have a healthy snack and a quiet place to rest. For you, I see endless promise; for you, I have unbelievable love and hope. For you, I want happiness, bliss, security, good health, success, and everything you could ever think to want or need.
I love you.
Love,
Mama
Dear Michael,
I am beginning to wonder if you'll quit teething by the time you leave home to go to college. This has been a long month, full of crying, biting, and sleeplessness. But you have two new molars, one on the top right and one on the bottom right, to show for your troubles. I can't help myself, and love to rub your swollen gums; the rest of your teeth are so close to popping out that I can feel every ridge and indentation. Your new teeth are like little razors -- so sharp that it seems they could slice the tip of my finger right open as you chomp down, the way you like to do.
You are summer's golden boy; you are my sweet baby. Mr. Personality. Already when you walk into a room, you light everything up. Strangers on the street stop me often to tell me how beautiful you are. People that don't stop will smile at you as you scream "TRUCK!!!" at the top of your lungs and practically fall out of your stroller to get closer to these things of beauty. As we continue on our way, you make your truck noises and turn around to catch the last fading glances of the truck. Lucky for you, we live in Montana, and so there is no shortage of trucks -- ever.
Later this month, there is a monster truck rally out at the fairgrounds. I certainly never envisioned myself planning to attend one of these meccas of American white trash, but I've already looked into tickets and I assure you, we are going. We're also going to go the day before so we can meet some of the drivers and sit in the monster trucks. I don't know if you'll be able to handle the excitement. I'm not sure if I will be able to either.
It has been a quiet month. It's hot, and you feel terrible. We mostly stick to our little routine. We have lunch, and then spend several hours out in the backyard where you play in the sandbox, and drive your trucks through my flowerbeds. You love to help weed, but you aren't very good at differentiating between weeds, flowers, and grass and so a lot of the good stuff has been ripped out of the ground by your pudgy hands. But it's o.k. because it seems that no matter what you rip out, you bring it over to me and announce, "Rower!" and squish your little nose up and sniff, sniff, sniff as you shove the weed/grass/flower up my nose so I can smell it too.
This month, as the heat became unbearable, you and I wiled away the afternoons sitting in our hot tub, which was filled with cold water. Our "pool" as you call it is just big enough for you, me, and approximately 3,000 toys. But the one that you spend most of your time with is your "nik" (a drink to those who don't speak your little language), and popping the top of it on and off and filling it with water. This activity has passed dozens of hours in the last month, and has made me wish I would have realized what a fantastic toy your cup was long ago.
After dinner each night, you and I go into the backyard where we pick raspberries, and you shove them into your little mouth as fast as I can find them. I think I've been able to consume two berries the entire summer and they're my favorite. I never thought I'd share them with anybody. But I think you love them more than I do.
After our baba hunt and some more playing, it's inside for a bath and bed. Your dad has been home more this month, and he has been on bath duty as I run around the house and put away every single toy you own and every single book possibly ever printed for the under-two set. Then, the three of us sit down and read books before bedtime. We always end with "Good Night Moon," and you know your cues: you say "hush" in your best whisper to the "old lady whispering hush" and "Night night" at the end of the book. Then you and I climb the stairs together, with you always holding onto the bannister, and we rock for a few minutes and sing, and then I put you in bed for the night. I place you in your crib on your back and instantly you roll over and put your butt up in the air, which is often the position I find you in as I check on you throughout the night.
You're really talking now. There are fewer nenes and babas in the world. Now you repeat nearly everything that we say; you're getting so good at getting the sounds of words right. You can tell us what you want and why you want it. I think you find communicating enormously satisfying. I can almost see smug happiness on your face when we hand you something you've asked for.
This month, I saw you use your imagination for the very first time. We were downtown, splashing in the little stream that runs through the walking mall when you picked up a pine cone, (A ditty!, as you like to call them), launched it down the stream, and said, "Ooh hoo" which is what you call a boat (after the sound a boat makes in "Moo Moo Goes to the City". What haven't you learned from Moo Moo?) It made me so proud, my creative brainchild, my future Picasso, Mozart, or Degas. I envisioned you changing the world with your art and your imagination, leaving a legacy of beauty and genius. It's amazing to me how much I want for you, how much I believe that you are truly the smartest, most creative child ever born, and that your intelligence, and your thoughtfulness, and your artistic vision will leave the world a better place. But that's just me. Your dad doesn't want an artist; he wants an NFL player instead -- mostly so he can have season tickets to games, and so that you can pay off our student loans.
Our big trip of the month was to Whitefish for a few days. You had what might have been a religious experience at Whitefish Lake. As we hiked down to the shore, and the lake first came into view, you just exclaimed, "POOOOLLLLLLL!!!!" and started squealing with delight. Whitefish Lake puts our outdoor pool (the hot tub) and our indoor pool (the bath tub) to shame. Not only is it the biggest pool you've ever seen in your life, but it had rocks AND sticks there. Plus, we caught a frog. Holy sweet Jesus; I don't think there's anything better in the world. It was freezing (nothing like a mountain-fed lake), but you ran into the water like a little trooper, and stayed in with your bottom lip quivering and your body turning blue, until we forced you to get out -- screaming the whole way back to the beach. I think I could have stayed on that beach forever, but after throwing rocks into the lake for a while and poking at things with sticks, it was time to go home for a snack and a nap.
What it all comes down to is this: For you, I'm willing to give up all my raspberries. For you, I'm willing to attend a monster truck rally. For you, I'm willing to give up a day at the beach so you can have a healthy snack and a quiet place to rest. For you, I see endless promise; for you, I have unbelievable love and hope. For you, I want happiness, bliss, security, good health, success, and everything you could ever think to want or need.
I love you.
Love,
Mama
posted by Sara @ 4:49 PM
