Outside of that 20 painful minutes of your mommy's life, you have given us many laughs as you attempt to place words with the things you love. Obviously, food words top your agenda because you are a kid with a one-track mind for culinary delights. Nary a moment passes that you aren't asking me for grapes, apple, pear, orange, milk, crackers, water, juice, raisins, cheese, or meat. Following a very close second are all things automotive or mechanical in nature. We've looked at more diggers, airplanes, helicopters, dump trucks, cars, trucks, fire trucks, police cars, ambulances and cranes than any two people should. The fact I now know the difference between an excavator and bulldozer should be an indicator that MOMMY HAS HAD ENOUGH OF THE TRUCKS.
The highlight of your foray into 20-monthdom occurred just recently when you got the chance to stand next to an honest-to-goodness garbage truck. The garbage administrator or disposal advisor or waste management coordinator - or whatever they call themselves nowadays - invited you to come up to the truck as they picked up their weekly cache of trash from the neighbourhood. You would have thought the skies had opened up and it was raining gold nuggets. You watched in awe as the garbage administra... - guy - threw the trash in and then smushed it up with the compactor. You screeched in glee as the truck backed up and beeped, beeped, beeped away. For the rest of the day, you just kept reenacting the throwing of garbage, a movement not unlike you were trying to swat a fly from in front of you. In fact, I can still ask you about garbage trucks and you'll start pretending like you are tossing the stuff yourself.
You are never-ending joy, Jack. Well, almost never-ending. Except those times you scream and run away from us in shopping centres. And the grocery store. And the library. But that aside, you are becoming such a little boy. No longer a baby, you are showing all the signs of growing up. Sometimes, I just want to make time stop so I can smell your head just a little longer without you saying "Moooom, stop it. Gross." I want to never lose that feeling of your tiny little hand in mine. I want to etch in my brain the way you sing songs in your crib every morning. It's going to happen, Jack, I know. But right now, I just want it to stop.
Love,
Your Momma
