Dear @$%$! Baby.
You’re not a baby anymore. You’re not even not yet a toddler, you ARE a motherfucking toddler. No Britney Spears references for you.
It was only four months, but Big A returned home to a totally different kid. One that doesn’t just crawl, but can walk, run, go up AND down the stairs, do squats and spin in circles. One who does not rely on formula or purees anymore, but eats pretty much what we’ll eat, sans hot sauce. One who KNOWS things. Like where to go when I say it’s time to eat. To sit on the bottom step when I say it’s to put shoes on. Where his head, nose, ears, toes, hands, butt and belly are. To start climbing the stairs when it’s time for bed.
I can tell you what something is and you remember. You GET it. Like, literally. I can tell you to go get something AND YOU GET THE THING I TOLD YOU TO GET. You know Dada’s hat, the Terrible Towel, Snoopy, Scout, Kenny Bear, and various balls.
Asking you to go get blue balls is my favorite activity.
You know certain books well enough to know I’m going to ask you where that thing makes the pom poms for his bed. Or what happens when the hippos go berserk.
I know you know things. Which makes it SO #@%#!# FRUSTRATING when you repeat the same offenses. Constantly. In a span of six minutes.
Your eyes light up when I ask if you want a cookie. You hang on for dear life to the snack cup of Teddy Grahams in the car and fall asleep, keeping the death grip in tact with one and the other inside with a grip on some snacks. And when you wake up to go into the house you take your hand out of said snack cup and stuff your face. And I laugh, hysterically, in front of the house, every time.
You make bull dog face by sticking out your bottom lip with a scowl. You are a tough guy and scrunch your nose and growl. You still drive me batshit with your wicked tantrums, but holy shit you are a funny kid.
You are tiny and we can blame maternal genes on that one. I’m short. My mom is short. My mom’s whole family is short. At your 15-month checkup (which happened at 16 months because, DUH, me) you were only 19.5 pounds and 29.5 inches. Which, while not a problem yet, is landing you still at the bottom of those crazy charts. Like, almost OFF the crazy charts. You still fit in some 9 month clothing. That ain’t right.
You will NOT be having Christmas Cage Match with your cousin, who at 6 months outweighs you by two pounds.
I love your snuggles and your kisses, both the sloppy ones and the newly practiced closed mouth ones. I love watching you learn. I am trying to have a longer fuse, but you really know how to push my buttons. At least you know how to put your toys away. That melts my heart AND takes away one of my daily tasks.
I love you, kid. But you’re @!$$%@! crazy.