(Daddy asked me if I would let him post some thoughts on my life thus far, in honor of my birthday. I admit, it's a bit early to have retrospectives about me, but since this is a fundamentally narcissistic blog, I figured what the heck.)
Two years ago my son emerged from the womb and promptly grabbed ahold of the nose-sucker they were using to clear his nostrils. He started screaming immediately and more or less didn’t stop for four months.
Now, he shouts “MOON” at the top of his lungs when he spots it in daylight from the car. He identifies everything he can—clouds, just to show off. He struggles to keep himself awake at night by thinking of the names of animals he knows and announcing that they are to be found “outside.”
He can be so very frustrating at times—especially when he refuses to nap or struggles to stay awake at night—but that’s just a symptom of something wonderful. He loves his life. He loves every minute of it, exploring, learning, and triumphing in showing off. He loves to investigate and discover, take apart, open up, turn over, and see what’s around the next corner. He loves to get his parents to pay attention and show them he knows something surprising, as when he opened an oven, looked in, and announced “Pizza, ALL GONE.”
It’s exhausting and exasperating and hard to take, because he hates to sleep and miss anything, and he won’t sit still for 10 seconds when awake. But it’s all because he’s happy. Happier than he probably will be ever again. And I can’t help but want more little happy characters like him around. Looking at him today embracing a beagle and giggling, I couldn’t wait for another, and another, and another. Sometimes it seems like he’s trying to kill us, but he’s not. All he wants is another adventure to fill up that big head of his, and it’s not his fault that daddy is old and slow and has boring responsibilities to worry about.
