Monday, December 22, 2008

Jack's Monthly Newsletter, Month Thirteen

Dear Jack,

Late, late, late. I swore I wouldn't let myself start doing this, but I guess that late's better than not-at-all.

Literally as I type these words, you are trucking back and forth our upstairs hallway with a used diaper in your hands. Gross? Yep. Disgusting, frankly. But it's all folded and bound up so the pee's on the inside, and it's a little ball of happiness to you. Clean diapers, used diapers, you love them all. You don't do anything with them, just carry them around. I try to keep the trashcans off the floor to keep you from getting at them, but you always find the ones I forgot to move. Right now you're trying to figure out how to hold onto your precious diaper and still pick other things up off the floor. Not being terribly successful, but not letting go of the diaper either.

You're not an obviously willful child, but you are quietly stubborn and I love you for it. When we move something out of your grasp, or thwart you in a project, you don't put up much of a fuss but you don't give up easily either. Best of both worlds, I think. Nobody loves a pushover, and it wouldn't stand you in good stead to be one. Keep at it, baby.

Walking is second nature now, and you're starting to step over thresholds and negotiate harder paths. You walk along with your feet turned out for stability and your butt sticking out; if I could video-tape every second you're mobile, I would. You're too cute.

You're really into music these days, swaying from side to side whenever you hear a tune on the radio or TV. Sometimes you add in a little knee-bounce, but you're best at the Stevie Wonder sway. You occasionally add in some droning, and I'm fairly sure you're actually singing in your own mind.

Did I mention that you had absolutely no interest in your birthday cake? None? You have a texture thing when it comes to food. If I try to hand you something unfamiliar or put new food on your tray, you'll draw your hands back and then very gingerly poke at the intruding food. Poke, poke, maybe a little smear, and then a tiny taste. Then you stuff your face full. Except the cake - you didn't stuff the cake. I'm truly not exaggerating when I say that you ignored it all, even after I pushed a shmear of icing through your lips so you could taste it on your tongue. You ended up eating grape tomatoes and red pepper slices, and your brother gave up after a few bites of cake and asked for more salad. Funny boys.

You do, however, love chocolate. A lot.

The last few weeks have been so tough for you with ear infections and RSV, coughing and congestion. We put the cherry on top last night when we let you fall down the basement stairs. You were totally fine; I'm still shaken. It was my fault, Jack, and I'm really sorry.

We continue to be amazed by your sweet nature, your contentment, your delight at life. You have a smile for almost everyone, even if you're ducking your head into my chest while you grin.

You are my sweetest heart, full of love-struck sighs, open-mouth kisses, and total grins of delight when you see me. I know you're going to grow and change, and you'll fall out of love with me just the way you're supposed to. I wouldn't hold you back even if I could, but all the same I'm already missing this love, this joy, this sweetness between us.

I'm so glad you were born.


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