To August, nearing 17 months.

Dearest boy,

From your earliest days, when you were still a bladder-kicking mystery, we jokingly called you Garbage Truck.  It started as a joke with the kids as we negotiated possible names and I insisted that we had decided that it would be Garbage Truck, whether you were a boy or a girl.  It was fitting at the time, since I frequently felt as though I'd been run over by exactly that.

These days, I still have many mornings where I wake up after a long restless night of you kicking me from the outside, slowly inching sideways in the bed until you're perfectly perpendicular with your feet on my neck, and I wonder what garbage truck managed to run me over during sleep.  Oh, yes, August.

And you fulfill your name by being obsessed with garbage.  The kitchen trash has to be hidden behind locked doors or on top of the counter to prevent you from either emptying it--today you pulled out the whole bag and darted away with it--or tossing everything you can carry into it.  You generally love being sent on an errand ("go give this to daddy.  to daddy.  go.  go give daddy." and off you toddle with whatever napkin or scrap of paper I had handy to occupy you) but your favorite errands of all involve "go put this in the trash.  trash.  Go trash." Off you run, chortling.  You flip open the lid, hurl it in, and then pause a beat before doing some dumpster-diving.  Aw, sweet Garbage Truck.  It's very kind of you, but less endearing when it's remote controls, shoes, the big kids' toys, or laundry.


Your personality is so strong, so unique, and so consistent.

In the hospital, a few days old

From your earliest days you have had one preferred sleeping position: right ear pressed to my heart, my chin pressed to your forehead, a hand on my chest. And still, to this day, it is your position for snuggles, for falling asleep, for recovering from a hurt or disappointment, or just to catch your breath.  Nearly any problem can be relieved with a few deep breaths spent listening to my heartbeat.

16.5 months

About a week old

You've come to be "all boy".  You're not complete without a dinosaur or vehicle in hand.  You love to ride horses, be they rocking horses, knees, or just a pillow you've straddled. You're so confident and ready to jump into life.  Once your feet hit the floor, you run full speed into the next room with your arms raised high, announcing your own entrance with a long "ahhhhahhhahhh",  made staccato by your jolting steps. When walking more casually, you rest one or both hands--palms out--on the small of your back exactly like your daddy.

You love physical comedy.  Very few things get you chortling with laughter as quickly as someone jumping around maniacally, but your absolute favorite of late is when you see one of us playing the Wii and the mini-mom or mini-dad on the screen goes tumbling down a hill, falling into oblivion, or hurled off screen when hit with a wrecking ball.  You scream with laughter and then excitedly watch for it to happen again.

And your love for animals only grows.  Your clear favorites are dogs, fish, and elephants (oh, how you adore elephants!) but you'd never turn down an opportunity to see or pet any animal and imitate their sounds.  And if asked about doing something, an affirmative answer is a raspy lizard-voiced "Dah!", often accompanied by a sinister sounding, low voice grumble of "heh heh heh heh".  And then a higher pitched, sweet baby voice of "mah?  Mah? Mah?" for more.

You give kisses freely--big, open mouthed, licks really--and punctuate each with a delayed "mmm-mah."

Nearing 18 months, the big kids were already more "big kid" than baby to us.  For you, the role of "baby" will likely be assigned until you are nearing 25.  Years.  You're our love bug, our snuggle puppy, our garbage truck; and no clothing size increase or skill set is going to simply take that away.

Always,
Mama