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