This was not posted on your actual 18 month birthday because you did not sleep the night before. Or the next night. And then I got busy with work. And then I got the barfies. And then you didn't sleep again.
It doesn't mean I love you any less. It just means I am fulfilling my obligation to be notoriously and consistently late.
(While I am here, we need to address this issue of your name.
'Bubbles' is a lovely name - a perfect name for a fetus or small baby - but I have to admit that you have outgrown it. Although you are indeed quite bubbly in your zest for life, you are so much more than that.
So I need help coming up with a new, appropriate bloggity name for my little man.
Dh thinks that EOS (Enemy Of Sleep) is a good choice. I am slightly reluctant to perpetuate that concept with a nickname.
I often find myself calling him 'Dangerboy', but again...the concept. Perhaps I just have to cave on the concept. I should probably resist the urge to go with 'barfing night freak'...
Any suggestions? Anyone?)
I know I have said it before, but you, little man, are just what our family needed. And how you knew that and came with the generosity to share it all with us - well, that is just one of the wonders of the world. You are all smiles, all the time (with the exception of sleep-related activities). You are full of love for life. You have only been walking for four months, so we find it rather amazing that your preferred method of transport is running. Full. Speed. Ahead.
In the months since you have learned to walk, you have become the boss of the yard. The master of your domain. We have to make the rounds several times daily. And if it is raining, woe to the parent who refuses him access to the great outdoors. The caterwauling rivals our siamese cat's own vocal displeasure at the downpours (which we cause of course, just to piss her off).
I am afraid that I am about to become one of those 'harness mommies'. My desire to keep you alive through what I can only console myself is just a phase, far outweighs my own mama-pride. You are compelled, driven, to danger. You have turned me into a surprisingly sexist mama, as I believe in the past 18 months I have uttered every cliche ever pinned on the species that are little boys. Seriously.
Oh, he is such a boy.
He is all boy.
Such a mama's boy.
He is so testosterone driven.
Boys just come out different.
Guilty as charged.
But you are. You really, truly are. All I have in comparison (in addition to the 14+ years of teaching experience before my children began to arrive) as a parent is Supergirl: who came out covered in pink tulle, and although she can climb any vertical surface with only the tiniest amount of friction, and although she can run faster than a coyote, she was never attracted to danger and roaring the way he is. And then there was Elijah, who really doesn't even fall into the comparison zone - a bodhisattva born without ego has no need for such frivolities.
You will run barrell-ass away from me up the driveway, yet if I walk out the front door without you, you sob and wail and must instantly have access to my neck and breasts as soon as possible following this type of trauma.
You love to wrestle. You get tackled routinely at music class by little Al, 2 mos your senior. He hugs you, then the hug turns into dropping you to the floor, then the wrestling. You walk up to him and beg for more.
If you see water, you must (attempt to) get in it. If you see a ladder, you must climb it. If you see a dog, you must try and eat it. If you see cardboard, you must take it into the kitchen and skate on it until you smack your head on the mexican tile or are stopped before this happens (imagine the wailing that then ensues, for he prefers to end this activity with a bang).
Feeding you is a bit of a challenge.
You refuse almost all food except:
Things that consist mostly of air (popcorn, freeze-dried fruit and veggies, rice cakes)
Bacon (which I don't know if we could technically call it eating, since you just suck on it for 1/2 hour and then spit it out wherever you happen to be)
Motrin (again, don't think we can really count this as food)
Chocolate (I am counting this one as food)
Because you only eat molecules of food, you poop molecules of poop. Much like a bunny. But you fill your diaper with these pellets at least 6 times every day. Frequently heard around here: He's poopy??!! AGAIN?!?!?!
You pull hair. And then laugh. This is not nice, and you must be stopped.
But, you are as fabulous as you are feral.
You will give hugs upon request. You love to play 'lets's rub noses and stare deeply into each others' crossed-eyes until one of us collapses in giggles'. You love to sing. You sing every song with one word: deedeedee. You dance like a little white boy marionette. You love coming to music class with me, but are reluctant to share me with the other children. You are, however, getting better at this.
I love love love how, after all those months of carefully asking you if you cared to nurse, rather than offer you 'boobie' or 'chi-chi', you now point to my breasts and ask for 'moo', and you point to bottles and ask for 'nur'. You crack me up, little man!
You are a master at communication now, though your actual vocabulary consists of about five sounds, which represent approximately twenty words. (i.e. 'moo' =milk, more, moon, or moo... 'boo' = blue, balloon, ball, or, can I have a sip of your beer?)
You are the most snuggly little wiggle monster I have ever met. The idea of a life without you is one I can not even approach in my mind. We fully expect you to stick around. I fully expect to stick around for you. I love you so much it hurts.
When I wake up all crowded in the morning with the stowaway Supergirl pressed into one side of me and you attached to the other, and I feel your fuzzy head of invisible hair under my chin, I breathe you both in deeply. Because this is the best moment of my life. And I get to live it. Again.