His tantrums start in his eyes and then slowly work their way to his lips, where they melt into a pout right before they open up to let a wail escape. He wails over anything: not getting his juice quickly enough, not getting to play with dangerous items, not getting to play in the street, when I sing him a song I swear made him giggle the day before. "NO MOMMY. STOP IT."
(Oh, about that, I'm Mommy. He went 18 months not calling me much of anything at all, but I always always always referred to myself as mama (still do, often enough) but he calls me Mommy. "HI MOMMY! IT'S MOMMY! MOMMY UP UP UP!")
We remind him to use his manners, ask for what he wants, "be my sweet boy, buds" and he looks up at us with those endless brown eyes and nods and says, "yes yes yes" as if he knew he wasn't supposed to throw a tantrum but, man, he just couldn't help it.
And we forgive him like THAT.
He runs everywhere he goes, always looking for fun or mischief and this is how I live my life now too: what will light up his face? What will he go apeshit over? What will he squeal about and love to pieces? What will he think is an adventure? He marches and stomps and picks up bugs and when a train goes by he goes "CHOO CHOO CHOO CHOO" over and over until the train disappears and then it's "CHOO CHOO BYE BYE? WHERE CHOO CHOO?"
The child only has two settings: sleeping and ALL CAPS.
His voice is slurred and squeaky and so damn adorable, I swear the sound that bounces around heaven all day is the sound of kids learning to talk.
He loves Cars and it's all he ever wants to watch. We tried Finding Nemo and he was all, "CA-CA? CA-CA?" (Which is the unfortunate way he says car.) I've bought him a couple things for Christmas that are Cars-related and I realize I'm the mom I never wanted to be: the one who buys into the commercialized hype of some stupid animated movie but, OH SHIT, is he going to love this stuff. I can't wait for him to open it.
He's such a boy, I can't stand it. He's such a boy, I feel like he's this walking, stomping, bug-grabbing, dirty-faced definition of a boy. Like the word was created just for him. Yet. He's so sweet. He has a baby cousin -- a one-year-old little girl -- and the way he loves the heck out of that baby girl is about as heart-melting as it gets. All day when we're around her it's, "MY ELLA! HI ELLA! ELLA ELLA ELLA!" He wants to give her toys and give her hugs and sit beside her. I'm told he's the same in class. While he's tossing chairs and fighting over toys with the boys, he's sweet and gentle and giving to the little girls. My little gentleman. My little man. My rough-and-tumble but sweet-and-loving little guy.
He's almost two, you know. He'll be two in no time flat and from there it's more dirt, more trucks, more trains, more cars, more bugs, more more more and less thigh fat and chub and slurred words and sweet babyness and, fuck, I'm going to miss all that, absolutely, but I refuse to be sad. I refuse to look at my guy and weep over what he was for one moment because that steals something from what he is and what he is is so hair-pullingly frustratingly beautiful. What he is deserves my undivided attention.
Sometimes I just want to write and write and write so one day I can remember it all but mostly I just want to write and write and write because he's just so worthy of all the words ever created.