Things I want to remember, Part 2

May 6, 2010 at 12:50 am | Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

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Dear Liam,
There’s so much going on with you, my little sixteen-month-old. You’re growing and changing every day. When I look in your eyes now, I see this understanding that I didn’t see before. You know me. You know what I’m saying, what I want from you. Instead of pulling every book off your bookshelf and piling them all around you, you’ll take one and bring it to me to read. Then, when I ask, you’ll put it back on your shelf. You watch me with such intensity sometimes, like you’re studying my every move. Well, sometimes you’re just pooping, ha ha. But other times I can see you’re filing things away. You’re still a little man of few words: mama, dada, nana, dee. Dee, as in Evie. As in every time we pass by her picture, you point and say, “Deeeee.” With that many e’s on the end of it. Whenever we see a dog, you bark “bwa, bwa” and then you say, “Baaa”, probably the closest you can say to dog right now. But I know you’ll get it, in time. You hug me and daddy now, real hugs, the kind where you squeeze our necks, kiss us full on the mouth, and rest your little head on our shoulders. And you’re so smart. Every day we walk around the block, and every time we pass this house where you saw a dog one time, you stop and point and bark, “Bwa, bwa, bwa.” One time there was a dog behind a fence, so every time we pass a tall wooden fence, there you go with the pointing and barking. You love soft things. Lately I’ve been piling all of the pillows onto the living room floor, and you’ll collapse into it for a massive cuddle-fest. You follow me everywhere I go, like my tiny little shadow. Like we’re on some invisible ten-foot tether. You point to everything you see, so astounded by the world you are. And I’m there, every moment, to introduce you to the things you’re seeing. I talk to you about everything around us, avoiding the baby talk, like you’re a little adult. Sometimes there are fits, where you gingerly lie down and roll over to “assume the position” on your back. Optimal fit-throwing pose, I suppose. Like you want to show me how mad you are, but you’re not going to bump your head on the hard wood floor if you can help it. It makes me laugh every time, even though you’re so mad. It goes to show I was meant for this, this stay-at-home mothering thing. I’m more patient and loving than I ever thought was possible. Thank you for that, son.

Love Always,
Mommy

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