Sixteen Months

Here we are silently, quickly creeping up on that much-discussed eighteen month-old mark where you are apparently going to turn into a pig-headed, independent, "It's all about me" kind of kid. I thought that happened when you hit one year, Jack. You mean he's going to get MORE STUBBORN? In that case, I am returning you for a full refund. Or at the very least, a store credit so I can get some new capri pants.


It's all joy and pain, sunshine and rain, Jack. For instance, this month you learned a new word. Owww. Or your next favorite variation, owwie. Supposedly, we should be happy you've added a new word to your burgeoning vocabulary. In reality, we are mortified. Why? Because you use it constantly. In every situation. Like that day when we were having such a fun time at the pool. And then I tried to put a life jacket on you. The pool area filled with sounds of you screaming, "Owwww, owwwww, owwwwieeee." I, trying to keep my swim shorts at a height that wouldn't have us removed from the pool due to public indecency, just smiled and tried to pretend we were playing a fun game. You kept screeching, "Owwwwwww," long after the offending jacket had been secured and we were happily playing in the water. Scratch that. Me, happily. You, howlingly. However, the waterslide quickly distracted you from the devil's floatation device and we were able to survive the day.

That was fun. Almost as much fun as when I pulled out your healthy, home-prepared lunch when we were sitting at Starbucks one fine, sunny day. Opening all my little pre-packed plastic containers, I was awfully proud of the beautifully cut vegetables I painstakingly cut into little julienne bits for you. I was even more impressed by the wholesome whole wheat tortilla spread with garden vegetable cream cheese and cut into handy little strips for your eating pleasure. And your response the moment your lips touched the creamy garden vegetable goodness? "Owwwww, owwww, owwwieee." Echoing through the tiny little Starbucks, it sounded as if I had chosen to feed you razor blades for your mid-day lunch. Rusty, dirty razor blades smeared in bug guts.

But for all the ranting and raving and lunacy, you are still the funniest, smartest little boy we have. The last little while, you have been completely obsessed with airplanes. We could be face-to-face with a man-eating lion who is snarling and seconds away from eating us, and you'd hear a plane, look up into the sky and proclaim "pane." Nothing stops you from noticing those flying machines, Jack. You find the slightest things endlessly amusing. For all the toys you have, you'd just as soon play with a whisk and bowl. Your affinity for kitchen implements clearly illustrates you are not my son. I also enjoy watching how as life hands you lemons, you make rocking chairs. Keep up the good battle, my son. I wouldn't have it any other way.



Love,
Your Momma

Fifteen Months

You probably thought you'd end up in college before I'd post this monthly update, didn't you? Me too. I'm traveling, Jack. Traveling on BUSINESS. There was a time, about 12 months ago, I didn't ever think I'd have anything to do with the word BUSINESS again. Except those types involving monkey, risky and 'none of your'.


Your pursuit of the great outdoors has posed a challenge for us this month. You've realized that just beyond that large, white hinged object that your dad and I exit and reappear through lays an entire world of sticks, pinecones and plastic garden toys. "STICKS, people," you seem to scream with your eyes every time you catch the slightest glimpse of the lawn from an open door. "STICKS I can carry in TWO HANDS. At ONE TIME." You love being outside more than anything right now, little Jack. You could wander for hours along the sidewalk, checking out what new weeds have appeared on the lawn, sauntering up the neighbour's driveway to see if you can coerce the teen girls to come out and oogle over you.



Your hair. Your hair. Your hair. There is not a day that passes that we don't hear about your hair. Sometimes we indirectly hear about your hair through comments such as, "She is so adorable." Dude, what can I do? Seriously. Yes, it hangs over your ears. Yes, it is curly. But I dress you in blue - CONSTANTLY - and try to have some sort of male-oriented paraphenalia on your shirt at all times, like a tractor or race car or that silhouette of a naked girl we see on mud flaps. We've got two options here: 1) Cut your hair and risk having short, loopy curls sprout that make you look like a poorly maintained poodle. 2) Leave it and make you wear a "If I had a sibling, I'd be a BROTHER" t-shirt.



This month, Jack, this month you embraced the very rhythm of the earth. You began to dance. Not exactly a free-flowing, give yourself over to the music and let your heart soar kind of dance. More like a bend your knees and sporadically bob up and down like a Whack-a-Mole carnival game kind of dance. Everytime I begin to hum the opening bars of 2 Unlimited's 'Get Ready for This', you instintively start bobbing to the beat. It's like my misspent nights in the mid-90s dance club scene absorbed directly into my bloodstream, lived latent in me for 10 years, and then passed through the placenta to reappear in you. Your dad is somewhat mortified you've taken to my bizarre attachment to techno-dance music of another era, but there ain't no room in our daily gotta get down agenda for Belle & Sebastian blechy blechy barf music, now is there, Jack?


Keep shaking what your momma gave you.

Love,
Your Momma