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