My dear little Miles,

This has been a summer of toe baths, corn on (and off) the cob, swimming and splashing, and sweaty little curls plastered to your scalp.

Toe baths are a local invention intended to address your serious pew-pew-stinky-feet problem.  It’s not your fault, really.  You’re a a little kid, your sandals get wet, your feet get stinky.  But it can get pretty serious, so we plunk you on the side of the sink and give you a little foot Jacuzzi to handle the issue.  We’re looking into some bathroom remodeling downstairs, and I like pedestal sinks.  I think it’s going to be important to keep at least one traditional counter sink in the house as long as there are stinky toes running around, though.

Another big thing you’ve discovered this month are classic fairy tales.  It started with me telling you the stories of Jack and the Beanstalk and Goldilocks and the Three Bears, which led us to pick up a collection at the library.  You especially like The Three Little Pigs, The Gingerbread Boy, and The Three Billy Goats Gruff.  When we were at the Ames aquatic center the other day, there was a pool break in which all kids under 16 had to get out of the water.  Mubby stayed with you while your dad and I floated along the lazy river, and she told me that as we passed, you said, “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

(Photo above by Gary Clarke)

You love all things categorizable, such as the jar of sprinkles I bought for you and Beanie to use in decorating her birthday cupcakes.  It’s divided into six sections, and each section contains a different shape of sprinkle.  You like to go around the jar and name each one.  Sometimes you ask for a hint, like “This is the kind of animal Papa has” for the cows, or “This is the animal Mommy likes to kiss” for the dolphins.  I know you know all the animals by now, but you still often ask for hints, just as part of the ritual.

You love to sing and dance, especially the monkey dance, and you like making up new lyrics for your favorite songs (sometimes with actual words, sometimes with gibberish).  You’re getting good at drawing faces, complete with eyes, noses, mouths, and eyebrows.  You love your iChat AV sessions with Mubby and Skittergramps, and you carefully tracked Skittergramps’s healing process from his hernia surgery.  As he recovered, you reminded him every day that his “owie [was] muuuuuuch better.”  When you skinned your knee, you enjoyed finding parallels between his healing process and yours.  And on our recent visit, you were thrilled that he had been cleared by his doctor to lift you once again.

Last weekend was a big one, with a trip to Ames and then a visit to the Crall family farm near Albia.  Mubby picked up a crazy inflatable contraption for you, which you named “Weird Toy.”  It was indeed weird, but you had fun tossing the balls around.  You also had fun with Aunt Suzy and Uncle Joe, who were kind enough to make the long drive from Minnesota to see you.  As usual, Aunt Suzy picked out the coolest toy ever, and you had a good time putting outfits on the magnetic doll.

Down at the farm, you got to play with Nana and Papa and assorted cousins.  It was an outrageously hot day, and you didn’t get a nap, but you were a great sport.  You kept cool by splashing in the wading pool, and you were a great sport through all our travels.  Next month at this time we’ll be at a wedding in Colorado, which means another plane trip for you.  This one should be pretty painless, though, since it’ll be a direct and relatively brief flight.  Besides, you’re a travel pro, as long as there are enough cookies and Matchbox cars to keep you busy.

I’ve had two dreams in the last couple of weeks that involve being on vacation on a tropical island, and in both of them, you and your daddy were right there with me.  I guess that means that whatever adventure I have, you’re a part of it (or more often, the cause of it).  Thanks for being my little adventure buddy.  I love you like Baby Bear loves porridge.

Love,

Mommy

Hey, Miles—guess what I love?

Your brain.

We were reading one of your favorite books, Tacky the Penguin by Helen Lester.  It’s about a penguin who is kind of weird, but valuable in his own way.  Unlike his tidy friends, Tacky doesn’t march 1-2-3-4; he marches 1-2-3, 4-6, 3-6-0, 2 1/2, 0 (or something—pardon my slight inaccuracies).  One recent time when we read that story, we got to the 2 1/2 part, and you said, “Just like Miles!”

Yes, my little heart, you are two and a half.  I read somewhere that the terrible twos peak right around this point, but you have been a joy lately.  You handled our vacation like a little trooper, despite air travel, car travel, jet lag, weird nap schedules, new people, and lots of busy and loud places.  You had a few trouble spots, of course, but mostly you handled things great.

In fact, you even invented a new strategy for ensuring your precious personal space.  You employed it with great aplomb with your Auntie Lily, who is a deeply loving person and your very special buddy, but she can sometimes be a little enthusiastic for your tastes.  When she got up in your face requesting kisses and you weren’t into it, you turned back to your watercolors and said, very matter-of-factly, “Busy painting right now!”

I’m so proud of what a good job you’re doing as you learn and experience new things.  You had a blast playing with your cousin Lisa in California, especially swimming in Uncle Larry’s pool.  With your water wings on, you quickly got over any trepidation and tooled around the pool like a big guy.

We had so much fun on our vacation.  You ate lots of noodles and Chinese food, and you loved the fish and penguins (you did the ASL sign for “I love you” to them through the glass) at the Monterey Bay Aquarium.   You thought the shops full of brightly colored plastic junk items in Chinatown were fantastic.  You danced and sang and watched fireworks, and you and Skittergramps did inventory of your little guys and little girls every morning.

On our trip to the beach in Monterey, you enjoyed the sand more than the ocean, but that’s an improvement over last time.  You liked finding rocks and instructing your dad to throw them into the water, and you really liked the seashells Mubby collected for you.  They’re in your penguin backpack right now, ready to play with once the newness of your home toys wears off.

Today is the first day back to our normal routine, and I think it’s good for everybody.  You were excited to see Beanie when she arrived this morning, and you gave her a nice round of applause and a big hug.  You reminded us that Mommy would be home at lunch time and Daddy would be home at dinner time, and you let us leave with nary an issue.

You’re making sentences and forming observations about your world.  You’re telling jokes, mostly focusing on the absurd (e.g., telling me that Daddy is actually Mommy and that we eat not with our mouths and tummies but with our eyeballs).  We’ve been telling bedtime stories, and you can recite Goldilocks and the Three Bears almost start-to-finish, and you’re able to fill in the blanks of Jack and the Beanstalk pretty thoroughly too.  When I was a little girl, Skittergramps would tell me bedtime stories, and sometimes he’d fall asleep and I’d have to finish them for him.  I think you’re not to far from that level.

You definitely like things your way.  This morning I was tidying up a little before Beanie arrived, and you got mad at me for moving your penguin backpack into the play room.  When I brought it back to the living room, you weren’t happy about me standing it in corner, either.  No, it had to be lying flat, exactly as I’d found it.  I guess that makes for easier access to your seashells.

Your dad is happy about the fact that you guys can play Legos together.  We just got back from Chicago, where I was attending a conference and you got some good Daddy time.  Your dad spotted the Lego store, and the items you purchased there occupied you for the rest of our time in Chicago, and they were among the first things we unpacked when we got home.  You are especially fond of the clear blocks.  Your dad is pretty psyched about them too.  Sometimes he remembers to share.

You’re doing all kinds of smart and cool stuff lately, and I love watching you make mental connections.  You were watching me edit video of our trip, and the iMovie icon for a cross-fade transition shows the silhouettes of three people riding bicycles.  You pointed to them and said, “Mommy, Daddy, Miles.”  You said the same thing last night when you found three columns in your block set.  We’re a good team, the three of us.

Thanks for letting us be your co-captains.

(This may be optimistic.)

Love,

Mommy

Happy 29 months, my little guy.

I was just listening to you play in the other room.  You were talking on your toy phone.  You said, “Hi, Uncle Tyler.  How you doing?  Miles talk on phone.  Bye, Uncle Michael.  Bye, Uncle Tyler.”

It was a three-party call, apparently.

That type of play is something you’ve been doing more lately:  sitting quietly and enjoying your toys and using your imagination.  That, of course, is balanced by your other new favorite game, called “Daddy Need a Hug.”  To do that, you start in the play room, run at full-speed down the hallway, do a lap around the coffee table in the living room, and eventually land in Daddy’s arms.  Sometimes you get so excited about the running part that you skip the hug and just run the course again, but the sentiment is there.

You’ve been so creative and fun lately.  It’s been wonderful to get outside and play, because you have such a great time running around in the grass and at the playground.  One of your favorite things lately is to throw sticks off the bridge into the creek.  You also love to blow the puff off dandelions, throw wood chips everywhere, and examine our strawberry patch for new ripe fruit.

A couple of weeks ago, your dad and I were getting some gardening done while you played in the back yard.  Your favorite thing was to soak a sponge in a bucket of water, then squeeze it out over our strawberry patch.  Now that we have a bumper crop of strawberries coming on, I like to remind you how much you helped by watering them.  You’re so proud of yourself, and I like for you to see the connection between work and rewards.

This is a concept that hasn’t been working so well with regard to the potty.  We got you a fancy new one, but you won’t even sit on it unless you’re fully dressed.  I’m not sure what your hangup is, and even promises of chocolate mints (your favorite—Andes and York Peppermint Patties are both acceptable) won’t get your nude butt on there.

I just keep telling myself that I’m unlikely to have to change your size 14 diaper before your high school graduation.  We’ll get it done eventually.

One thing we’ve noticed lately is that you know all the words to the songs we’ve been singing you since you were little.  I guess that makes sense, since you’ve heard them hundreds of times, but it’s really funny to hear the lyrics to my silly, made-up songs come out of your mouth.

A:  Who’s my little Scooper-boo?

M:  It Miles!  It Miles!  Who little ‘cooper-boo?  It Miles!  It Miles!

You also get excited about the goofy songs I make up on the spur of the moment to describe the world around us.  I didn’t even realize I did it as much as I do until you started pressuring me to repeat them.  These songs are not artistic masterpieces.  Many of them sound really stupid, actually, but you enjoy them.  One that has become popular around the house:

(To the tune of “Hey, Jude”)

Don’t smoke.
It makes you gross.
It makes you gross and
I’m not into it.

That’s pretty much it.  I’m more excited when you demand and repeat the higher-quality items in my repertoire, like Arrorró mi niño.  That’s a Latin American lullaby I learned when I was just a little kid, and I love singing it to you.  You can sing along now pretty well, too.

We need to get you out to the swimming pool another once or twice before vacation.  At the end of this month, we’re going to California to see Uncle Larry and Auntie Lily, and you are pretty excited about using the pool in their yard.  Anything with water thrills you, from a lawn sprinkler to a hotel pool to a cup at the table.

You had an outrageously fun time playing with Uncle Tyler on our recent trip to Omaha.  There was a problem with our hotel pool, and the thought of you not being able to swim was just too sad, so we ended up trekking out to another pool to swim.  You had so much fun, both swimming and going to the zoo.  You’re a little unusual—sometimes it seems like you’re not having fun because you can be so serious.  But I think you’re really just learning and concentrating.  One of the first animals we saw was a cheetah, which someone (Skittergramps, maybe?) named Mr. Cheetah.  You seemed to enjoy it as much or as little as any of the other animals, and we continued along.  But last Sunday, we were at a store that had a lot of realistic-looking stuffed animals.  You pointed up to a spotted big cat and said “Mr. Cheetah!”

The animals were cool, but when I asked you what your favorite part of the weekend was, you told me it was playing on the bed with Uncle Tyler.

Every day, it seems, you do something new and funny and wonderful.  Some days you do some crappy things.  We almost didn’t make it out of the house last Sunday because you were throwing an extended tantrum.  I’m glad we did, though.  Once you got calmed down, we had a tasty brunch, rudeness-free, and then we went to a graduation party.  You had a blast there.  You met two big kids, the children of your dad’s coworker, and you guys played ball and ran around on the grass.  You pulled out your A material for them, including the SPRING BREAK torso flash and the ‘tude face.  Now you want to talk about Holly and Eli all the time.

This summer is going to be great, Little Miles.  We’ll be on vacation for your next month completion date, which is actually your half birthday, so the next installment will be a little late.  But never you fear.  The summer is only beginning, and there’s nothing better than being a little kid in the summertime.

Thank you for being my little Scooper-boo.  I wouldn’t want a summer without you.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Yesterday you turned 2.3333 (repeating).  Repeating is something you do a lot lately, which is probably why your language skills have improved so much in the last month.  You’re talking so well, building sentences with verbs and subjects and pronouns and inflection.  It’s really fun and satisfying to hear.  Sometimes, unsolicited, you’ll say “Thinking ’bout…” and tell me what’s on your mind.  Last night in the car, we were listening to All Things Considered, and you chimed in with “Thinking ’bout Obama.”  You didn’t elaborate, but I’m glad to know you’re keeping up with current events.  Also…

NPR Announcer:  Which was the greater cause of the Wall Street collapse, man or machine?

Miles:  MAN!

I think it was a rhetorical question, but again, good job paying attention.

I just looked over my last letter to you, and I am thrilled to report that your freaking-out-around-strangers phase has largely ended.  Beanie told me that the other day you guys were playing out in the front yard.  The UPS guy arrived, which only a month ago would have sent you into sobs.  Not only did you not get upset, you accepted the package into your hands when he offered it, and you were so proud to show it to me when I got home.

It was shoes for me.  Of course, you wore them around the house before I got a chance to try them on.

The mild weather has given us lots of opportunities to get outside.  You love to visit your playgrounds, especially the one behind our house and the one by the library.  You’re a pro at the twirly slide, and you could run back and forth on the sidewalk by the park shelter until you withered with exhaustion.  Of course you don’t want to run on the cushy grass right next to the sidewalk, and your dad and I sit poised in pre-cringe mode, just waiting for you to take a spill onto the concrete.  Your form, while adorable, is seriously wonky.  You wave your arms around and kick your outsized feet like a lab puppy, one of those that will one day be a big dog, but for the time being can’t quite manage its extremities.  I hope I’m not making it worse with your footwear.  Why don’t toddler shoes come in half-sizes, anyway?  Of course, with all the practice you get wearing size 8 women’s and size 10.5 men’s shoes, you can probably handle an extra half-inch in the toe of your little velcro sneakers.

Last night we were talking, and I asked you who Daddy’s boy is.  You said, “Miles.”  Then I asked you who Mommy’s boy is, and you said, “Tiny baby Miles.”  You are having a lot of fun lately watching home videos of what you call the “Tiny baby Miles” days, which by your definition include last Halloween and Christmas.  I guess when you’re only 2.3333 (repeating), stuff that happened five to seven months ago is pretty distant.

On the other hand, you also recently insisted that you were in Mommy’s tummy.  I said, “Yes, you used to be in Mommy’s tummy, then you got too big and came out” (this  glosses over many critical events, but we’re keeping it simple for now).

You replied, “No.  Miles in Mommy’s tummy NOW.”

Maybe you don’t know what at tummy is.  The whole idea is pretty implausible to you, I’m sure.

I didn’t get this posted yesterday for the best of reasons:  it was a Mommy/Miles day, and I spent almost every minute with you.  Beanie had a doctor’s appointment and couldn’t make it, so I took a vacation day and hung out with my Tiny Baby Miles.  My Tiny Baby Miles is now a guy who can’t walk under the kitchen counter anymore, who can order from the kid’s menu at a restaurant, who can name the states and cities his relatives live in.

Yes, you can still be stubborn and grumpy sometimes, but mostly you are smart and hilarious and expressive.  A silly game you play:  your dad asks you for a hug, and instead of giving him one, you run straight to me and wrap your arms around my knees, giggling at how you’re sticking it to your daddy.  I hope your dad knows you’re just being goofy and that it doesn’t hurt his feelings.

I’ll be straight with you.  I dig it.  It can be exhausting, like earlier this week when you were sick and you cried, “More want Mommy” over and over, but you reward me multi-fold.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day, and I’m so proud that I get to be with my wonderful little boy.  We’ll pose for our third annual picture in the front yard, and I hope when you look back at those pictures in future years, you know that the huge smile on my face is only about 3% for the camera and 97% for you.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Oh boy.  Was it just last month that I was saying the Terrible Twos seem not to be affecting you?  My, how things have changed.

That’s not quite fair—I wouldn’t say your behavior is terrible, overall.  You’re still a very sweet boy a lot of the time.  You’ve just gotten awfully opinionated.  I asked Mubby and Skittergramps for advice on how to manage these issues (and maybe that’s an indication that I’m in my Terrible Thirties—I’m asking my parents for advice and genuinely appreciating it).  Skittergramps said, “Make him think it’s his idea.”

That sometimes works, when the topic is innocuous, like getting you to take your vitamin.  If you refuse it, I can just leave it out and it’ll find its way into your mouth.  Unfortunately, Hy-Vee does not yet sell naps that taste like gummy bears, and lately, naptime has about a 90% correlation with tantrum time.

But let us not focus on the negative.  You are really great in a lot of ways.  You still love to read, and you’re beginning to understand the concept that letters work together to form words and phrases.  I got some video of you going through the letters that make up the title of one of your noisier books:  you touched each letter and said “S-N-A-P-P-Y  S-O-U-N-D-S…” then ran your finger across the words and announced the title:  “Loud book.”  You did the same thing with a sweatshirt I was wearing.  “A-R-I-Z-O-N-A:  Mommy.”

Arizona sounds pretty good these days, with all the snow we’ve had.  We’re planning our summer trip to California, which I know you’ll love due to the proximity of a swimming pool at Uncle Larry’s house.  In the meantime, though, we’ve been slogging through snow.  Skittergramps taught you how to shovel, and that’s kind of like taking Intro to Art Appreciation with Prof. Michelangelo.  He got you a pair of shoveling gloves and a bright yellow shovel, and the two of you did some good work on our sidewalks.

We are all excited about the end of winter.  The days have been getting warmer, and it won’t be long before the snow is gone and we can get outside to play more.  You’ve been celebrating the coming of spring with rampant nudity.  You love to be nude (or “newt,” as you say).  You have a little trouble differentiating between partial and complete nudity, though.  To you, any exposed skin makes a person nude, and it was a little embarrassing when we were at a restaurant the other night and you requested your book that has kids wearing swimsuits by yelling, “More nude girl!”

You also had fun this month at a birthday party for your Great-Great Uncle Joe.  Any excuse to see Nana, Uncle Mark, and Aunt Shannon is okay by you, and you had a really fun time playing with balloons (”balloo-noo-noos”) and puzzles and running around like a crazy man.  We went to an Academy Awards party last night, and on the way there, you said “Uncle Mark.  Nana.”  We had to explain to you that not every party has Uncle Mark and Nana at it.  It turned out okay because you got chocolate-covered strawberries and cake and got to climb up lots of stairs.

This morning we were reminiscing about the weekend’s activities, and we asked you what you had fun doing at the party last.  You agreed that the stairs and the food were fun and that it was cool to wear your sparkle vest and watch very big videos.  Then you mentioned what might have been the best part of the evening for you:  puddles.  You were very reluctant to leave the party last night, even though it was past your bedtime, so your dad and I tried to entertain you by doing a “one, two, three, WHEE” over puddles, and apparently it made an impression.

The best part of the month for you may have been your daddy’s birthday, which is technically today, but we did most of our celebrating over the weekend.  You like to sing “Happy Birthday” and fill in the blanks with the honored person’s name, you like helping to open presents, and you really like cake.  You firmly believe that cake is appropriate for every meal of the day, and also snacks.  You haven’t really caught onto pie yet.  We’ll see what happens later in the month, because Mommy’s birthday is next, and I think I’m getting pie.

Maybe you’ll eat pie if we make you think it’s your idea.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

“Daddy Mi night-night!”

“One two ee oh igh!”

“Uh-oh doggy eyeball.”

This has been the month of sentence-building.  You don’t always have all the parts of speech in the places one might expect, but you’re getting really good at verbalizing what you experience.  Tonight at the dinner table, your dad and I were having pizza, and you were having some extra shredded cheese in a cup.  You looked at your dad’s plate and said “Daddy pizza.”  Then you looked at my plate and said “Mommy pizza.”  Then you looked at your tray and said “Mi chee!”

You’ve also embraced the idea that people can have more than one name.  Tonight I walked into the play room, and you were sitting on the floor, playing with your Magnadoodle (which you call your I-O, since those are your two favorite letters to write on it).  You were murmuring “A-pull Mommy, Denny Daddy.”  You’re also getting good at saying your own name.  You still like to call yourself Mi, but now and then you’ll make it to Mile.  The s still eludes you, but your doctor said it’s nothing to worry about.  She was too busy being impressed that you noticed there were two d’s on the cover of the book she gave you.

Now that the Christmas and birthday excitement have died down, we’re all getting kind of antsy for winter to be over.  We’ve gone out to play in the snow a few times, which you love, but nowhere near as often as we go out when it’s nice outside.  I think it’s hard on you.  You run up and down the hallway.  You dance like the floor’s on fire.  You’ve recently taken an interest in the Beach Boys, and the change of pace is great, but it makes me crave sunshine and the sea even more.

While we’re stuck inside, we find ways to stay busy.  You are very, very proficient at using my iPhone.  Last week we made an unexpected call to Uncle Tyler—you got a concerned look on your face, and I checked to see what you had done. It was dialing.  Since we’d gotten that far, we went ahead and waited for him to pick up and chatted with him a little.  That’s one of the more pleasant surprises that has resulted from you messing with my phone.  I didn’t like it so much when you changed my wallpaper to something stupid.  I’m sure there are other Easter eggs waiting for me, and I’ll find them as I get around to my lesser-used apps.

We have begun some very gentle potty training, or it might be better described as potty familiarizing.  You got a potty seat for your birthday, the kind that fits on a regular toilet, and you’ve sat on it a few times.  You’re okay with it as long as you’re fully clothed.  You don’t like it so much nude (or, as you would say, “Nuuuuuuuu”).  Maybe you don’t quite get the concept yet.

You don’t get to be nude much these days, since it’s cold out and you don’t have a lot of body fat.  At your doctor’s appointment, we found out that you’re between the 75th and 90th percentile for height, but below 50th for weight.  That’s not necessarily a problem—it’s probably just your build.  But the mommy in me (which is basically my entire me) feels a compulsion to feed you, so you often find me chasing you around with fruit and cereal and turkey and ABC cookies.

I’ve noticed a jump in your ability to understand more complex ideas this month.  You’re starting to get “If x, then y” propositions.  For example, in the bathtub, you don’t like leaning back to have your hair rinsed.  You do, however, like getting extra hot water added.  After asking you several times to lean back so I could rinse your hair, and after you refused several times, I told you, “If you lean back and let me rinse your hair, you can have more water.”

Plop.  Back you went with no argument.  Ten seconds later, your hair was clean and you were upright again, enjoying the stream of hot water from the faucet.

Really, you have been a delight to hang out with lately.  You haven’t been throwing hardly any tantrums, and you’re funny and affectionate.  It’s so satisfying to see you be able to communicate better, how proud you are of yourself when you make an observation.  You always know exactly what you mean, and sometimes it’s frustrating when your dad and I can’t understand you, but we usually figure it out.

Your sleeping has gotten a lot better too.  We think we’re going to convert your crib into a big boy bed soon, and in preparation, your dad has changed your night-night routine so that you fall asleep in the guest room bed, and then he moves you to your crib.  You seem to really love it.  Sometimes I can hardly get through milk, stories, and tooth-brushing before you’re scrambling to Daddy for night-night.  You still end up in our bed before the night is out, but that moment has been arriving later and later.  Besides, I don’t mind.  You’re awfully cuddly.

Happy last month of winter, Little Scoop.  We’ll make it.

Love,

Mommy

Two.  2.  Dos.  Deux.  Mon dieu.

Moey at-ah plee.

That’s that phrase that woke your dad up yesterday morning.  I was getting ready for work, and your dad was hoping you’d sleep in on this Daddy-Miles day.  No such luck.  Moey at-ah plee.  Moey at-ah plee.

That means “More water, please,” and it has nothing to do with thirst.  We’ve been getting a little stir-crazy on these cold afternoons when we’re stuck at home.  I try to limit both the quantity and inanity of the YouTube videos you’re allowed to watch, which you would do all day if I let you, so I came up with the idea of turning on the bathroom faucet, just a trickle, and letting you play with it.

Now it’s your new obsession.  It wouldn’t be so bad if you were content with just that, but no—you want your supervisor to fill a cup, then you want to carry the cup and dump it into the bathtub, which means you need to put the cup down and get help to descend from your stepstool.  Then you dump the cup, then climb back up to the sink, then demand that the supervisor refill the cup.  I’m not sure why a grownup has to do that part, since you can reach, but you are quite sure that cup-filling is not your job.

Then you want the water on stronger, which we’ll let you do for a moment, but when we can no longer stomach the wastefulness and turn the water back down, you are not so happy.

It’s been a month of mood swings.  Life is either tragic or euphoric for you right now.  When we got our Christmas tree, you ran up and down the hall about thirty times, yelling “Yay!  Yay!  Yay!”  When you saw the dining room all decorated for your birthday this morning, with streamers and balloons and the number 2 formed out of sparkly pipecleaners, you let out a low but truly impressed-sounding “Wow.”

You are developing a sense of humor.  You get a kick out of calling everyone Uncle [name], including Uncle Mommy, Uncle Daddy, Uncle Bean, and Uncle Mubby.  When you get an owie and I ask you where you need a kiss, you usually start with the knees, then the head, and then it could be anywhere.  Sometimes you need a kiss on the eyeball.  Sometimes you need a kiss on the Christmas tree.  Yesterday you told me I needed to kiss my own nose, and I when I failed, you kissed my nose for me.

Last week I completed an application for a highly sought-after local preschool.  You’re nowhere near ready for preschool, at least if they have a potty-training requirement, but there’s a waiting list.  The application was extensive.  I had to write about your academic strengths and weaknesses, your personality, what we would do to contribute to the school’s emphasis on diversity, and how you handle frustration.  For that last one, I wrote “Yelling.”  It seemed like that was kind of the wrong answer, like I should say that you retreat to your Unhappy Chair and do some quiet yoga until you feel better.  But, seriously, you’re two.  You yell.  You are almost never physically aggressive, which is mostly good, though it leads to you getting bowled over by more assertive children and curious puppies.

Two years ago today, I met a tiny boy, too new for the world, but strong and tenacious.  Your eyes were swollen shut, so you couldn’t see my face, but I didn’t worry about that too much since you had never seen me anyway.  We talked and sang to you a lot, the same songs we sang to you in utero, and you really seemed to recognize them.  I don’t know if those early experiences with singing and music shaped your current personality or if it’s just a coincidence, but you are absolutely crazy about music these days.  You always want to listen to the iPod or hear your dad and me sing, and you dance with great enthusiasm.  You recognize tempo and mood changes, and during a slow bridge, you close your eyes and sway like Stevie Wonder, singing “Oooooh” with the backing vocalists.

When I met that pickly, jaundiced, swollen-eyed version of you, I imagined the person you’d become.  I don’t remember any specifics, and honestly I don’t have any dreams for you besides general personal fulfillment.  I just tried to picture you as a one-year-old, a two-year-old, a ten-year-old, a seventeen-year-old, a thirty-year-old.  I’m sure I was completely wrong in a lot of ways, but you still have my mouth and your daddy’s eyes (which we discovered once the swelling went down).  You have a lot of my facial expressions, and I’m pretty sure your tendencies toward anal retention come from your father.  An ajar cabinet door is anathema to you.

You’ve been in a huge Mommy phase for the last few months.  It kind of hurts your dad’s feelings, I think, because at certain moments, there’s just nothing he can do to make you happy.  It wears me out sometimes too, when all I want to do is make dinner, and you freak out because you can’t be in my arms every single second.  It’s tiring.  You’re heavy.  The stove is hot.  The kitchen is not the place for little kids.

But…I have to admit there’s something heart-exploding about it.  When you say Mommy, and you run to my arms and bury your head in my shoulder, and suddenly everything is okay in your world, and I was the one who could make it okay just by holding you—I know I’m going to look back on these days and I wish I could always solve your problems so easily.

Today, our problems are few.  You’re healthy, save for a runny nose.  The weather is cold, but our house is warm.  You are smart—the preschool application offered a box to check labeled “Exceptionally bright.”  Yeah, I checked it.  I’m guessing pretty much everybody in the Willowwind Parents demographic checks it, but what am I going to do, sell you short?

You’re not really that short.  You’re almost three feet tall.

I love you more than than a thousand people typing a thousand words per minute on a thousand keyboards could write, even if the only words they were writing were “I love you.”

Happy birthday.  And many more.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Little Scoop, you’re almost 2.  This is your last month as a 1-year-old, and it’s about time, because you’ve been counting to 2 like a maniac lately.  Everything countable is “one, doo, one, doo, one doo.”  You’ve thrown on a “ee, oh” (”three, four”) a few times, but mostly you’re stuck on the 1-2 repeat.

You know all about the fact that your birthday is coming up, that you’re going to be two, and that you’ll have a cake with two candles and you’ll blow them out.   Last weekend we celebrated your Papa’s (Grandpa Denny’s) birthday, and you were pretty sure he was turning two as well.

It seems like every day you learn new things.  This month you mastered a lot of compound and two-syllable words, like eyeball, Corn Chex, snowman, cookie, Mubby, and boobie.  That last one started out as a mispronunciation of “bootie,” which has been hot in your vocabulary ever since Mubby brought you a pair of Elmo booties, but you took the opportunity to tell me you knew its other meaning as I changed into my exercise clothes the other day.

You also demonstrated that knowledge in a tactile manner on the swimsuit mannequins at the mall a few days ago:

Poke, poke. “Boobie!”  Poke, poke. “Boobie!”

This continued long after we left the sporting goods store.  Ah, Miles.  You’re nothing if not persistent.

Your dad and I have noted lately that ignoring you just doesn’t work.  We should have figured it out already; our early and earnest experiments with letting you “cry it out” were complete disasters.  I don’t want to go into the details again, because it makes me feel sick, but I honestly think you would scream until your vocal cords eroded their way out your throat.  You don’t scream a whole lot these days (though the recent forays into whining are their own special kind of grating), but if you want to talk about something while we want to talk about something else, forget it.  You will chant whatever is on your mind ceaselessly until we acknowledge you.

And often, that’s all it takes.  You just want to be heard.  You would rather be told no than ignored.

(Which is not to say you like being told no, but this is common among your contemporaries, I hear.)

We had a really fun Thanksgivsmas with the Clarke side of the family.  You’re a little shy around new people, especially kids, probably because they’re loud and unpredictable and get in your face.  Still, you thought your cousins Maxwell, Meredith, and Anna were just fascinating, and you do a great job naming them in pictures.  Meredith comes out more like Meh-deh, but it’s recognizable, and I appreciate your effort.

You could look at pictures and home videos all day long, which I don’t let you do, but we spend at least some time every day looking at family multimedia objects.  I had to stop letting you play with my iPhone (or, as you call it, Duck-Cuckoo, because of an animal sounds app I have) because you were getting obsessed with it.  You really got the hang of the touch-screen, the downside of which is the fact that you think my laptop screen is also a touch-screen, and now it’s fingerprintier than ever.

Gosh, you can do so much now.  You can play the recorder (just one note, and a squeaky one, but still).  You know every capital letter of the alphabet and a lot of the lower-case ones.  You can pick out your own clothes, which often involves a vest and gives me happy memories of your Uncle Tyler’s argyle vest phase.  You can gallop on a stick horse and make giant choo-choos out of Legos.  You can put together simple puzzles and, with help, more complicated ones.

Along with all the new words you’ve learned, you’ve started doing some complex communication units that incorporate nontraditional methods as well.  We saw two of your favorite people, Aunt Suzy (”Ah-ah”) and Uncle Joe, at Thanksgiving, and you love to talk about them.  It goes something like this:

Miles:  Unco Joe.
Mommy:  Yes, we saw Uncle Joe, didn’t we?
Miles:  Ba-boom!
Mommy:  That’s right, he fell off his bike.   [This happened the last time they visited my parents, and Miles won't let it go.]  He’s all better now, though.
Miles:  Ah-ah [pucker-kiss noise]
Mommy:  Yes, Aunt Suzy gave him a kiss and made him feel better.

We repeat this sequence every time you think about Uncle Joe or when you see someone on a bike.  That’s one good thing about the cold weather setting in:  fewer cyclists to trigger your obsession with Joe’s bike accident.  Of course, that doesn’t address the dog on a bike on the inside cover of one of your favorite books.

Another example of your communication sequences:  a couple of weeks ago, your dad had to go out of town for several days, so Mubby and Skittergramps came to keep us company.  You were wearing a shirt with no onesie, and when you lifted it up, Mubby jovially threatened to tickle you.  You shook your head, puckered up, and made a kiss noise.  No tickling, you were telling her.  Just a tummy kiss, please.  You bet you got one.  You probably got twenty.

Enjoy your last month of one-dom, sweetheart.  I don’t know if they make onesies much bigger than the ones you’re wearing now.  This may be the last month your tummy goes mostly protected.  I don’t care if you’re a big-boy two-year-old.  That tummy is getting kisses.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

This is coming a day early, because tomorrow we’re going to Nanna and Papa’s farm, which has cows and kitties and a dog the size of a pony, but the Internet access isn’t so great.

We’re coming into your last two months as a one-year-old.  You love to say two, whether as a reference to your upcoming birthday or as a clarification on how many crackers you’d like.  It comes out more like doo, but we know what you mean (most of the time).

Your language skills have grown so much this month.  You love to try out new words and make observations about your world.  Sometimes when we’re outside playing, you look up at the sky and say “Blue!” like you’re the first person who ever noticed it.  I love watching you get so excited about things.

Another thing we’ve learned about you this month is that you very much do not like your observations to go unacknowledged.  If we’re trying to get you calmed down for bed and you notice your an orange crayon somewhere and start yelling “Oh!”, my first inclination is to ignore your outburst and focus on Go, Dog, Go or whatever story we’re reading.  But if I try that, you’ll keep hollering about your crayon for a very long time.  It’s not that you necessarily want to play with the crayon; you just really want me to notice that you noticed it.  If I say, “Yes, that’s an orange crayon,” we can get right back to the book.

I also appreciate your desire for accuracy.  The other day, you were looking at one of your blocks that has letters on all six sides.  The letters are consecutive, and I could see an X and a Y on the surfaces facing me.  “Beeee,” you said.

Assuming it was actually a V you were looking at, I took the opportunity to model the fricative for you.  “Yes, that’s a vvvvvvveeeee,” I said.

You looked at me like I was nuts.   “Beeee,” you said again.

“Yes, vvvvvvveeeeee.”

“Beeee.”

Then you turned the block and I saw that on that block, Z had been reached and the alphabet started over.  It was, in fact, a B.  Sorry for not believing you, honey, but thanks for not falling for it.  You know when things aren’t right and you won’t stand for it, whether it’s a letter or a cabinet door that’s ajar.

First-born syndrome, maybe?

Life without siblings and without time with other kids in a daycare setting has created (or maybe reinforced an existing tendency toward) timidness in you.  When we go to the library and play with the wooden train set, other kids grab trains out of your hands, and you just stare at them.  You don’t usually get upset.  You just seem bewildered that anyone would act in an impolite manner.

The same thing happened yesterday when we went to the mall and you played on the kids’ play structure.  Lots of kids, mostly bigger than you, were running all around and bumping into you, mostly accidentally except for one rude jerk who needs some anger management.  Right now, you are a tender little fellow, which I find a lot more charming than an aggressive nature.  But your dad thinks you need to learn to assert yourself, and he’s probably right.  I’m not sure how we’re going to do that, but we’ll sort it out.

What you lack in aggression you make up for with curiosity and a love of learning.  You know almost all your letters now, most of them in the traditional way and some of them in funny ways.  For example, when you see a k, you say gay and make a kissing noise.  I don’t think you’re making any comment on gay kissing, specifically.  You just need to practice your unvoiced consonants.

You love to point out letters you see places.  On our mall trip yesterday, we had to pause by a jewelry store so you could show me the “D—Dada!” in the word diamonds.  I never thought of the Coral Ridge Mall as teeming with educational opportunities, but it turns out there are a whole lot of signs to read.  You didn’t believe me that the concentric circles at Target weren’t an O, though.

You had your first Halloween with anything resembling awareness this year.  I though you’d get a kick out of all the doorbell-ringing, but what you liked best was just being outside at night.  We went to an event at our neighborhood shopping mall a couple of nights before Halloween, which was fun enough but kind of confusing, and then we went to some neighbors’ houses on real trick-or-treat night.  We tried to bring you back inside, but you wouldn’t have it.  You just wanted to wander around the yard, kicking leaves and looking at our jack-o-lantern.  Once we finally shoehorned you indoors, though, you had fun answering the door with me.  You also liked sorting all the brightly-colored candy, though this year your consumption levels were pretty low.

Another exciting thing that happened this month was a trip to Lincoln, Nebraska to visit Uncle Tyler.  His sports team didn’t do so hot in their game that weekend, which would ordinarily have sent him into a spiral of grumpiness, but you made him smile.  He made you fly in the air, played catch with you, and shared his toys.

(Photo by Gary Clarke)

Mubby and Skittergramps taught you to flex your arms and make a muscle-man grunt after saying Tyler, a gesture that now represents the letter T to you.  Now, when you see a T, a lot of the time you skip saying Tyler altogether and just do your muscle grunt.

It happens organically, the development of a family code.  Every day when we talk about the things we see and the people we know, tiny bits fall together to form a language that only we understand.  It’s like when you see a cow and say Papa (because Papa raises cattle) or when you see a raccoon and say Guh (don’t ask).  When you’re thirsty, you ask for ghee mi, which is not Indian food at all, but rather Miles-milk in the green cup.  It requires a lot of explanation for people who don’t hang out with us, but that’s okay.  A family code is one of the things that holds us close together in this fast-spinning world.  It can also introduce some great words into a person’s vocabulary.  Thanks to Uncle Tyler, I still sleep on a dudju every night.

Yes, you do throw a tantrum now and then, but mostly you are sweet and hilarious.  Despite some incoming molars, you’re doing better with your sleeping overall, though this morning I woke up with your feet in my face and your head pointing down toward the foot of the bed.  You and your Beanie-nanny have great times together, and you never fret anymore when your dad and I leave.  This morning, your block tower was already four-high by the time we got out the door.

But just when I think you’re such a big boy, you cuddle up on my lap and smash your cheek against mine.  Sometimes you transmit applesauce that way, but I don’t care.  As you played on the mall play structure yesterday, every couple of minutes you’d look around to spot me on the benches.  I kept moving so I could keep an eye on you, and as you scanned the adults sitting there, I could see you mouthing  “Mama?”  When you’d spot me, you’d give me a huge smile and get back to your playing.

It’s okay, Little Scoop. Go have your adventures.  I’ve got your back.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

When I was little, your Mubby (who is my mommy—can you believe that?) used to quiz me on all sorts of things:  letters, numbers, colors, and when I got a little bigger, songs and poems.  I have gotten the impression over the years that your Skittergramps (my dad—another mind-blow for you, I’m sure) thought she was pushing me too hard or otherwise over-stressing those skills, but she always insisted, “She loved it.”

“Yeah, right,” I thought.  “What kid would love to be drilled on academic-type subjects when he or she’s still in diapers?”

Then I met you.

It didn’t start out as drilling, specifically.  You have a magnet board with letter and animal magnets, and you started grabbing the D and saying “Dada.”  I agreed with you:  yes, D is for Dada.  Then I sort of casually showed you the M and told you it was for Mama and Miles.  You picked that up so fast that I thought “What the heck?” and started asking you about other letters.  Now, probably a week or two after we started playing that game, you know about ten letters.  You know them in multiple contexts, too.  We were walking home from Hy-Vee the other day, and you looked up and said “Bee!”

Now, that’s a tricky one, because the word bee can mean lots of things in your world.  Foremost, it’s your nanny, Bean.  But it also means green bean, bee the insect, and pea.  I thought maybe a bee was buzzing around overhead, since we were near some flowering bushes, so I asked you if you saw a bee.  You looked up again, pointing excitedly with your finger, and insisted “BEE!”

Sure enough, we were standing directly under the big red B of the Bakery sign on the side of the building.

You find letters everywhere, including on my computer keyboard, which makes it difficult to type anything when you’re nearby, because you move my hands off the keys and start naming letters.  Sometimes you say the actual letter name, and sometimes you associate it with a word that begins with that sound.  Yesterday you got a kick out of playing with your basketball and reading the initials printed on it:  Nanna Bee Ay.

You’re not even two yet, Miles.  How am I going to keep up?

This makes me think of this horrible midwife we saw when I was early in my pregnancy with you.  I was interested in taking Omega-3 fatty acid supplements because of evidence that they raise a kid’s IQ, but I had read some conflicting information about what sources of Omega-3s were good choices.  I asked the horrible midwife specifically about whether flaxseed oil was okay to take during pregnancy, and rather than answer my question, she pooh-poohed the idea of taking the supplements at all.

Well, forget you, rude midwife.  I ended up taking an Omega-3 supplement specifically for pregnant women, and it seems to have worked out pretty well.  I should also note that we successfully avoided that midwife for the rest of the pregnancy and birth, choosing instead to work with her informed and compassionate colleagues.  I so clearly remember my relief 21 months ago when I asked which midwife was on call, and it was one of the non-evil ones.

But back to you, Little Scoop.  It’s not just letters you’ve learned lately.  You’re learning new words and sounds and gestures and ways of organizing your world.  Yesterday you were in your crib after nap, and you crawled around pointing out all the elephants on your sheets, making an elephant noise and trunk gesture with each one.  Then you repeated it with the lion, then the giraffe (which was hard, since your giraffe gesture involves throwing your head back to extend your neck, and a crawling position is not very amenable to that), then the monkey.

On Monday, which was a Daddy/Miles morning, your dad called me at work to tell me some exciting news:  you made a three-word sentence, sort of.  He was feeding you blueberries at breakfast, and you said “More please blue.”  That’s only the second time we’ve heard you combine words.  The first time was when you pointed at the toilet and said “Mama bye-bye.”  I don’t think you meant you wanted to flush me.  I think you were referring to how, when you’re around and I use the bathroom, we wave bye-bye to the contents.  A little ridiculous, yes, but I’m trying to prime you for eventual potty training.

More is probably your favorite word right now, up there with no.  You’ve given up using your modified ASL sign for more, which had been your most frequent communication tool, and switched entirely over to spoken English.  Actually it sounds more like “Mo-ey,” but we know what you mean, and I know you’ll refine your language as you continue to develop.

We did all kinds of fun stuff this month, one of the highlights of which were a trip to the apple orchard, where you wanted to pick every single apple you saw in the trees and on the ground.  We also had a super-fun time at the Blank Park Zoo, where you saw zebras, giraffes, a tiger, lots of fish, otters, and other cool animals.  Our main purpose for going was the Justin Roberts and the Not Ready for Naptime Players concert.  It was pretty loud, louder than I expected for a kids’ concert, but you were entranced.  You stood on one of your many grandparents’ laps—all four of them joined us for the occasion—and watched, so serious, taking in the music.  You weren’t distracted by the people getting up, sitting down, dancing, and yelling.  You just watched and listened, and when a song ended, you clapped and said “Mo-ey!”

We’ve got more wackiness coming up in the next few weeks, including a trip to Nanna and Papa’s farm and a visit to Uncle Tyler’s new house in Lincoln, Nebraska.  Long drives are easier now than they used to be, since you’re happier to look at books or your collections of family photos.  That’s not to say you don’t melt down sometimes, and those occasions can make road trips pretty awful.  But they’re happening less lately.  We’ll see how that trend changes as you approach the oft-maligned two-year mark.

In the meantime, in the words of Modern English via Justin Roberts, I’ll stop the world and melt down with you.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Today, which is also Skittergramps’ birthday, you turn 20 months old.  I don’t think you understand the concept of birthdays yet, but you really enjoy it when people sing “Happy Birthday,” so we did that about six times total for Skittergramps.  You also know about blowing out candles:  you were playing with a candle today (unlit, of course), and you kept blowing on it.  Of course, you did that while sitting in your high chair, and you seem to think anything on your tray needs to be blown on.  That goes for hot tater tots, grapes, and even ice cream.

I should really be keeping a list of all the words you know, whether in traditional English or your own special language.  The best ones come with important gestures and intonations, like your verbalization of wanting music on.  You say ladl-ladl-ladl-ladl-ladl (yes, a lot like the word for banana) and move your finger in a motion that in other contexts means “naughty naughty,” but here I think is more of a boogie-woogie type movement.

You make all kinds of hilarious expressions and noises, and you’re so funny.  Some background for our readership:  you call your Grandma Cheryl “Nanna,” your Grandpa Denny “Papa,” your Mubby “Buh,” and your Skittergramps “Guh.”  Yesterday we were spending time with Nanna and Papa and some other aunts and uncles, and the time came for you to take a break for a nap.  I promised you that after you took a nap, you could play with Nanna again.

You didn’t like that idea so much, and as I attempted to get you down for your nap, you yelled “Nanna!  Nanna!  Nanna!”

“No,” I reminded you.  “You have to take a nap before you can see Nanna.”

You looked at me, made your voice very small, and said, “Buh?”

It’s so much fun to watch the evidence of your developing brain.  I could see what you were thinking:  I would certainly like to play with Nanna.  However, that seems to be off the table right now.  What are my alternatives?  Would a nap be required in order to play with Mubby?  I think I laughed so much that it probably cost me an extra ten minutes to get you to take a nap, but you did, and after that we had lots of fun playing with Nanna.  She’s pretty spry, and she scrambled all over the Albia playground with you.  You had a great time with your Papa, too.  He held you and let you bounce on an inflatable bouncy house at the Georgetown picnic, poked a strange little decorative leprechaun with you, and led you all around by the hand.  You rewarded him with a very nice goodbye kiss as we were getting ready to go home.

And though you can be so shockingly sweet sometimes that I want to put you in a pie, other times lately your opinionated toddler side has been coming out.  Your new favorite word is NO with an especially petulant little diphthong at the end.  But on the other hand, you’re also learning to nod—you’ve had the negative head-shake mastered for quite a while.  You can’t quite get the up-and-down head motion going, but you try your best by leaning forward and backward.  This is easier to do while seated than while standing, so we get more yeses at the dinner table than anywhere else.

Last night as we drove back from Albia, several times you broke out into unprovoked giggles.  Are you thinking funny things, Miles?  Are you telling jokes in your head?

I’m often surprised by the things you notice and remember.  During a visit from Mubby and Skittergramps, Skittergramps blew on your head for entertainment.  Now, when you see the picture I snapped of the moment, you start blowing on my head and want me to blow on yours.

You’re getting better at reading people and situations too.  In one of your books, there’s a picture of a park scene (unrelated to the text) that includes a little boy being comforted by his mother.  When you see it, you say “Ba-boom!”, which is your phrase for something falling, be it a grape or your own self.  Later in the book, there’s a picture of babies and children sleeping on clouds.  After doing your usual loud snore-sound, which is your automatic response to seeing anyone with closed eyes, you pointed to one sleeping child and said “Ba-boom!”  I looked and told you no, he didn’t fall down, he’s just sleeping.  You insisted on “Ba-boom!”, so I leafed back through the book, and lo and behold, it was the same kid in the same outfit from the park scene.

Books are something we use a lot around here.  You have about 48,000 of them due to the generous gifts of many family and friends, and you have some great favorites among them.  Right now, you’re really into Dr. Seuss’ The Foot Book, and even better, photo albums of family members (mostly with you, because there really aren’t any more pictures in our house that don’t include you, save the occasional arty food or floral shot).  You love to name the different people in the pictures, including Aunt Suzy, whom you call “Ah-Ah,” and Uncle Tyler, whom you call “Dial.”

I usually try not to include to0 much scatological content in this blog, not only because it is in poor taste but because I want you to enjoy reading it someday, and who really wants to hear about his babyhood bowel movements?  But this one is too good not to include.  Your Beaniesitter was the lucky one who got to manage this situation.

Recently we went out to Mekong (the restaurant) for some pan-Asian cuisine, and you gorged yourself on my Vietnamese chicken and vegetables.  I mean, you went nuts on that stuff.  It’s good—I don’t blame you a bit—but apparently it had some ill effects on your innards.  Bean tells me that your butt made a noise like an elephant, and you got a horrified look on your face.  You made the “naughty naughty” gesture and ran to your changing table, which is very unusual behavior for you, since you normally do your best to avoid diaper changes.  Then, as she dealt with the carnage, Bean tells me you said “Ach!  Ach!” the same way you do when you see litter in a public place.

I’m sorry you had such a traumatizing poo-sperience, but I’m really glad you like Vietnamese food so much.  You love anything with rice or couscous (all of which you call coo-coo). You do so well with such a wide variety of cuisines, and yet I can’t get you to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  You are a weird kid.

A weird and wonderful and wackadoodle kid, and you’re all mine.

Love,

Mommy

Bob has left the building.

Last week, seemingly out of nowhere but perhaps due to your Beaniesitter’s educational influence, you started saying mama.

I guess I knew you’d say it eventually, but you started saying dada when you were ten months old or so, and it always made me a little jealous and sad that you couldn’t say mama.  Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t mind being called Bob.  Bob is a perfectly good name.  But there’s something magical about your sweet little voice when you wake up in the morning, lift your head up to look at me, and say mama.

Just as excitingly, you are getting very close to saying your own name.  For now, usually you just get the Mi- part, though you sometimes get a little bit of an l in there.  The s sound still eludes you, but since there’s no s in mama, nobody’s complaining at our house.

You also know how to say lots of different animal sounds (including a clicking sound you attribute to a squirrel, which no one remembers teaching you), BUH! (which means Mubby and absolutely requires an exclamation point when written out, because you say it with great enthusiasm), and no. You either can’t or won’t say yes, because when I ask you to, you say no.

You also do a really funny face sometimes that involves lowering your chin, looking up through furrowed eyebrows, and sticking out the tip of your tongue.  It took me a while to figure out what you were doing there, but eventually I realized you were imitating the sad face I make when you refuse to hug or kiss me.  I stick out my lower lip when I do that, which apparently looks like a tongue to you.

You’re stingier with the hugs and kisses than you used to be, which is a downer, but I think it also represents cognitive development.  Before, when I’d ask for a kiss, you heard the word and immediately set about the action.  Now, you hear the word, analyze the situation, and make a decision about whether you want to complete the action or not.  Sometimes you don’t, but sometimes you do, and maybe the kisses you choose to share are a little bit sweeter because of it.

We spent a fair amount of effort (though not nearly as much as Skittergramps, Mubby, and some of your great aunts and uncles) this month helping sort through things in Grammy and Pop-Pop’s house, which they’ve decided to sell.  We still see them in their assisted living apartment, but it’s strange to me to realize you’re probably not going to remember the big house in Springville.  My cousins and I spend so much time there and had so much fun there; it’s an indelible part of my personal history.

Even as you grow more independent, part of me still feels like you and I are the same person.  It’s a cheesy metaphor but the best one I’ve ever heard to describe how a mother feels about her baby—it’s like my heart is running around outside my body.  Running really fast, I might add, and yelling with every step, so we hear UH-UH-UH-UH-UH as you thump down the hallway at top speed.  So how could it possibly be that my little boy—the little person I made out of Mexican food and Omega-3 supplements and optimism—won’t remember Grammy and Pop-Pop’s house?

You’ll have your own memories, I know.  You’re making them already.  We’re at Mubby and Skittergramps’ house right now, and you have so much fun going around to Mubby’s different garden decorations, pointing out the rabbits and squirrels and flowers and the fish in the pond.  We’re going to see Grandma Cheryl and Grandpa Denny tomorrow, and you’re developing memories of them, too.  I know you’re going to go crazy about all the cows at Grandpa Denny’s farm next time we go there (that’s one of your best animal noises:  mah-ooooo).  And when someday you have first cousins, you’ll do the same kinds of goofy things with them at your Cousins’ Week that I did at mine.

But back to the present:  things are going really well, I’d say.  You are transitioning pretty well to your new care provider (the aforementioned Beaniesitter).  She tells me about the great adventures you have, from watching a cicada emerge from its shell to throwing five balls down the hallway at the same time.  I know you’re learning and having fun with Bean, even though it’s kind of hard when we leave.  It’s reassuring that she sends me a photo every morning of you smiling, usually just minutes after we go.

A highlight this month was seeing Uncle Tyler.  We’re going to visit him at his new house in Lincoln in October, and you think he’s just the coolest.

You also got to see Niamh, who is our friends John and Patty’s little girl.  She’s only a year older than you, but that still qualifies as a big kid in your eyes, which makes her awesome.

Mubby thinks you’re a genius (and so do I, but she knows a lot more little kids than I do) because a person only has to show you something once before you learn it.  That can be a good thing and a bad thing, because sometimes you don’t want to stop doing the new tricks you learn.  You know how to do “cheers” with a glass, but you don’t realize you’re only supposed to do it once or twice.  You like to hold hands with people, especially when you have someone one each side of you, but you don’t realize that some circumstances (such as riding in the stroller) aren’t ideal for it.  You like to do the “I don’t know” gesture with upturned hands, but sometimes you get carried away and your hands go all the way up to your head.

You’ll learn finesse.  Don’t worry.  In the meantime, I love every one of your silly-billy tumbly-bumbly ways.

Have a great month, Scoop.  Try to get some sleep.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Goodness me, you’re 1.5.  One point five.  A year and a half.  Half-way to three, which means potty-training and preschool.  Ay yi yi.

You’ve learned so much in the last month.  You haven’t quite hit your vocabulary explosion yet (though I think that’s coming up), but you’re definitely getting new words and communication tools.  I especially like how you’re not limited by English-language phonemes to get your points across.  For example—and this is just my closest approximation using the letters on this American keyboard— you call a banana a “ba-ladl-ladl.”  The second two syllables are mostly tongue-flapping.

You have also recently taken to imitating the sing-song intonation of “all done” without actually producing the words.  You just do a rise and fall “ah-ah” while making something close to the ASL sign for “all done.”

And let’s not get started on the head-shaking.  Sometimes it actually means no, and other times I think you just enjoy sloshing your brain around, but there has been a lot of that going on in our house lately.

You continue to surprise me with your eating habits.  Sometimes you can’t get enough of one thing (this week it’s Corn Chex), and then you abandon it in favor of something else.  One type of food you consistently enjoy is Asian food.  You liked bites of my rice and sauce from the Indian booth at Jazz Fest last weekend.  You also love Mongolian beef with lots of onions and Thai duck noodle soup.  We’re going to see your great-Auntie Lily next week, and I’m sure she’ll be so pleased.

Lately you love to get wet.  Maybe it’s the hot weather, but we’ll often find you dragging your bath sponge into the tub, as if requesting a bath, and you had so much fun at the family party at the Albia pool.  You laughed and splashed and let your Aunt Shannon zoom you all around.  We’re looking forward to getting you into the pool here soon.  In a less hygienic manifestation of these desires, you also like to get your hands into whatever beverage you have in front of you and then rub the contents on your head.  This isn’t such a problem with water, but chocolate milk can be a little outrageous.

You are on the move something fierce these days.  You can go up and down the basement stairs with no help, which eases our minds a lot, since we don’t worry so much about you tumbling to your doom anymore.  And let me tell you, it’s nice not to have to be paranoid about shutting the door behind me immediately after heading down the steps, because do you have any idea how difficult that is with a giant laundry basket in one’s arms?  You also crawl in and out of bed on your own, which includes standing up, jumping, and plopping down with glee.  You run and jump and do dances that feature stomping and kicking.  Jazz Fest offered lots of opportunities to dance—you really love music, and you clap when every song ends (that is, when you’re not distracted by doggies and people and lemonade).

You probably won’t remember MIchael Jackson dying, much like I don’t remember Elvis Presley dying during my babyhood, but I bet the general public uproar is similar.  It serves as a reminder that it’s tempting to exploit talent, and bad parenting and too much money and fame too young can really destroy a person.  You might not be as good a dancer or pop star as Michael Jackson, but I want you to know that whatever your talents end up being, they are your own.  They don’t belong to me or your dad or the rest of the world.

Sharing your strengths is a wonderful thing to do, and I hope you find something to do with your life that benefits others as well as yourself.  But you don’t have to look or act a certain way or fulfill anybody’s idea about what you ought to be doing except your own.  I can already see an independent streak in you, and maybe that’s just an early glimpse of a contrary two-year-old, but I admire it and hope to help you cultivate it.  Maybe, though,  could we find more interesting ways to be independent than shaking your head NONONONO when I offer you milk, only to stop and take a giant swig?

We have a big transition coming up.  Jessa and her family are moving away, which means you’ll lose your special caregiving friend.  We have a new person lined up, a really fun and sweet and silly Bean, and we’re excited about that, but we’ll miss Jessa.  She was there as you went from a timid little one-year-old who cried when your dad and I left to the kid you are now.  This morning, you barely even noticed as we said goodbye, because you were having so much fun playing with a stack of hangers in Jonah’s room.

It’s almost time for me to go pick you up, now.  It’s the best part of my day, when you drop the blocks or book and coming running to me, your arms outstretched, and give me a big hug.

Happy half-birthday, Little Scoop.  You’re the greatest.

Dear Miles,

This month has been full of first for you.  You made your first international trip (super fun), you learned to climb things really well (fun for you, scary for us), and you had your first significant illness (fun for no one except the makers of infants’ Tylenol and ibuprofen).

First, the obligatory sleep report:  you’re doing much better.  You’ve been taking good naps in your crib, and one time this month you slept in your crib for six straight hours.  Last night was good—you stayed in your crib for quite a while, and then when you joined us, you slept pretty peacefully.  In fact, I don’t even remember the last time you woke up hysterically crying, which used to happen a lot.

This is good news, my dear.

On vacation, we had a king-sized bed, and that was great for our co-sleeping gang.  When we got home, our mere queen-sized bed felt small, but we’re getting used to it again.  I always said I didn’t like king-sized beds because they’re lonely, even when someone else is there.  I clearly had never slept with a sprawly toddler.  I think, rather than upgrade beds, we’ll work on getting you to sleep in your crib more, but we’re really just figuring it out as we go.

Isn’t it always like that?  Several sets of friends have had babies lately (or will soon), most of them for the first time, and it’s interesting to remember what life was like when we were in their position.  You can read as much as you want and make all kinds of decision about how you’ll handle things, and then when it comes down to it, you just wing it.

Speaking of wings (weak segue, sorry), you did pretty well on our recent plane rides.  You got a little whiny, but you had no heavy-duty freak-outs.  At one point before takeoff, you were playing at your dad’s feet, and your pants fell around your ankles.  That greatly amused the people sitting across the aisle.

You’re a tad on the skinny side, and sometimes your clothes droop.  You’d been at the fiftieth percentile for both height and weight ever since you caught up from your early-and-smallish beginning, but at this last doctor’s appointment, you had dropped to 25th percentile in weight.  The doctor wasn’t too concerned; she said this is the age when kids settle into the body types they’ll have their whole lives.  It’s obvious that you’re getting long and lean.  It makes me feel less guilty about the fact that they only way I can get you to drink milk is to offer you a 50/50 plain-and-chocolate blend.

You’re definitely less easy to manipulate than you used to be.  You are asserting strong preferences and dislikes, and you are an expert in both the ASL sign for more and a vehement head shake of disgust.  For the record, here are your current turn-ons and turn-offs:

You like:

• Raisins
• Juice/water blend administered from a medicine dropper (this was my brilliant idea after you kept demanding more Tylenol and ibuprofen drops)
• Going down the slide at the playground
• Being outside in general—a quick way to turn a bad mood around for you is a trip outdoors
• Climbing into chairs, onto the hearth, onto the CPU your dad has in front of the bookshelf…pretty much anything scalable.



• Your care provider, Jessa.  We’re sad/happy to report that Jessa’s husband has gotten a job in another town, so we need to look for another caregiver for you.  It will be hard to beat Jessa and her little boy, Jonah.  You snuggle into her shoulder when we leave in the morning, and it makes me feel so relieved that you have someone to care for you whom you love so much.  Let’s hope the next person is as good.
• Turning on my clock radio and dancing to the music
• Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons
• High-end digital cameras

You dislike:

• Having your hair washed.  This is a new thing.  You were always great about leaning back for a hair rinse, but lately, you’ve decided it is absolutely unacceptable.  It’s a shame, because it puts a real damper on bath time.
• Accidentally turning on the printer.  It scares the bejeezus out of you.
• Locked or closed doors, especially when you can see the outdoors  on the other side.
• Having your efforts thwarted.

The “likes” list is a lot longer than the “dislikes,” isn’t it?  You’ve really been a fun kid lately, except for this last week when you were sick, but that wasn’t your fault.  We think you had roseola, which is a common and minor childhood illness with some scary symptoms (3-5 days of high fever—103.9F in your case—followed by a full-body rash).  Luckily, you’re pretty much back to your old self now, eating raisins by the fistful and scrambling around outside with your dad this very minute.

You discovered your love of raisins while we were in the Bahamas.  It was a wonderful trip, with mostly great weather, a comfortable condo, and easy access to all we needed:  the pool and the beach were right out our doorstep, and it was just a short drive to a grocery store, restaurants, shops, and activities.  You ate and enjoyed cracked conch, a Bahamian specialty I ordered and shared with you.  You also ate a lot of cereal, which is our go-to food whenever we can’t think of what else to give you.  We’d never gotten a raisiny cereal before, but the options were a little limited at the grocery store, and all for the better.  You became a raisin maniac.

You didn’t like the beach or ocean a whole lot at first.  The water was a little rough for you, and you didn’t like the feeling of sand on your bare feet.  By the end of the trip you’d gotten used to it, though, and you even ate some sand.  You had lots of fun in the pool, and you mostly did a good job keeping your sun hat on.  You charmed many, many restaurant waitstaff with your blown kisses and gimme-fives.

It was a good first international trip—close to home, easy to manage, and relaxing.  I can’t wait for our next adventure together.

I can see you out the window right now, your little arm stretched up to hold your dad’s hand.  Your yummy-yummy-chub thighs, while still undeniably yummy, are getting less chubby.  You take after your father in that.  Your big blue eyes are as beautiful as always, but they’re lighting up a little boy face now instead of a baby face.

Oh, you just blew me a kiss.

Thank you, sweetheart.  You’re my number one boy forever.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Last night your dad and I were doing a little math, and we realized that with your 16 months on the outside and my 8 months of pregnancy, you’ve been in our lives one way or another for two entire years.  It’s funny how fast it’s gone in some ways and how slowly it’s gone in others.  It feels like my life before you was just some kind of dream—recognizable, but surreal.  And well-rested.

Because it seems like I always post an update on your sleep habits, here’s this month’s:  overall, you’re doing pretty well.  You have a molar coming in that’s been causing trouble, but you’ve done a good job lately staying in your crib for longer.  You do inevitably end up in our bed, which is mostly fine.  I don’t sleep all that well when you’re in your crib anyway, because I keep going to check on you.  The only problem is you like to make funny shapes between your dad and me, like the cross-bar of an H or the diagonal of an N.  The N has been more popular lately, which means my head often ends up halfway on the bedside table, and your dad risks kicks to the sibling-makers.

I guess it’s your way of ensuring your place of honor in the family.  Never you fear—you won’t have a sibling any time soon.  Two in diapers at the same time is a scary thought, and I need to bank up some more sleep first.

You are getting much more independent, though.  Last night we went out for a walk on the multi-purpose trail behind our house, and you walked a good part of the distance yourself.  It was, as your dad noted, a Family Circus-esque kind of route, with lots of doubling back and stops to look at plants and dirt piles and wildlife and airplanes in the sky, but it gave me a glimpse into the future when you’ll be walking by yourself all the time.

You can climb up into chairs by yourself and reasonably reliably get down.  Actually, you want to climb up just about anything that can be climbed, including the play equipment at the park and various household items.  You can eat with a spoon, as long as you don’t have to be too tidy about it.  You can drink from a cup by holding it with both hands, and as it turns out, the key to getting milk into you is to make it of the chocolate variety.

It makes me shudder a little to think that we’re giving you chocolate milk every day, but at your last checkup, you had dropped a standard deviation in weight and skipped up a little in height, which puts you at 25th percentile for weight and a little over 50th for height.  The doctor wasn’t too concerned, as long as your weight doesn’t go down another level, but it’s something we’re keeping an eye on.  Regardless, the advantages of chocolate milk seem to beat the disadvantages right now, since we’re not too concerned about you being overweight.

(Don’t tell your dad this, but with his genes in you, I think you may be fated to skinniness.  This is not so bad as long as you remember to wear belts.)

You play so many fun games nowadays.  You love to play with your magnets and stacking rings and Legos, and you seem to have really figured out how mirrors work.  No longer is that baby in the mirror a perplexing stranger; now, when we plunk a silly hat on your head, you run squealing to the mirror to check out how you look.

As usual, you charmed a variety of friends and family, including your regular fan clubs of Mubby/Skittergramps and Grandma Cheryl/Grandpa Denny.  You also spent some time with Grammy and Pop-Pop and our friend Danny.

You had your first significant fever this month, which was scary in these days of Swine Flu hysteria.  [Note for posterity:  in the spring of 2009, a Swine Flu outbreak in Mexico and the U.S. had everyone freaked out.]  It turned out to be nothing serious, maybe related to teething and maybe not, but you were a miserable little guy for 24 hours or so.  You didn’t even want to play outside, which is really unusual for you.  Ordinarily we have to watch you carefully, because you might put a fist through the screen door in an attempt to get outdoors.

A week from today, you’ll get to see a whole new landscape.  It will be your second time seeing the ocean, but your first time in a climate where it’s hospitable for swimming.  We’ll talk more about that in next month’s update after we’ve returned, but in the meantime, I’m pretty excited for you to use your passport for the first time.  Let’s hope you do as well on the airplanes this time as you did last.

I think my favorite of your developments of this month is the sharp upswing in your cuddliness.  You’ve started giving snuggles and hugs in the strangest and most delightful ways.  For example, you love to approach someone who is sitting on a toilet (yes, we have an open-bathroom-door kind of household these days) and put your cold hands on his/her thigh to elicit a shriek.  Then, as if in apology, you lean down and snuggle the thigh with your cheek.  You also like to cuddle people’s feet.

Now that I write this down, it kind of sounds like you’ve got some weird preferences emerging.  Hm.  Ah well, there are worse things.  I’m glad to report that you also snuggle shoulders and tummies.  Your kisses are just the kind I’d normally hate—spitty and lingering and suctiony—but coming from you, they are perfect.

I love you, Scoop.

Mommy

Dear Miles,

Happy 15 months, Little Scoop!

This month has really been a brain explosion for you, which is not as gory as it sounds.  You are doing all kinds of new things:  following 2-part commands (e.g., “Go find Daddy and give him the book”), identifying body parts, expressing excitement over your favorite foods, and recognizing so many words and ideas.  Yesterday I was barefoot, and when I asked you to find Mommy’s toes, you grabbed them immediately.  Then you went and found a pair of my socks and set them on top of my feet.  You were right—it’s still too cold out to be barefoot.

You prefer to be barefoot (or, as we call it, having nude feet) at night, and you hate covers, so I always worry that you’ll be cold.  But your dad and I usually find you snuggled up to one of us come morning, so I guess you find your heat source when you need it.

You’ve been generous lately with hugs and kisses.  Last night your dad showed me a fun trick you do:  if he crouches across the room from you and asks you to give him a hug, you smile slyly while you decide whether you should do it or not, then run to him with your arms outstretched, a huge smile on your face, and dive in for a hug.

Your kisses are wet.  For some reason, this is not gross to me.

A highlight of this month has been all the time you spent with your extended family.  We went to Ames around spring break time, and you had a wonderful time there with Mubby and Skittergramps.  You also got to see Great Aunt Suzy and Great Uncle Joe, and you had a really fun time with them.  Uncle Tyler also showed up for some fun, and you guys became the greatest of buddies.

He pushed you around in a laundry basket, read you stories, and carried you around as if you weighed nothing at all.  When we got back, I had a picture framed of Uncle Tyler holding you on his lap, and you are crazy about that thing.  You’d carry it around all day if we’d let you, but we’re worried you’ll drop it and break the glass.

You really like all the different pictures we have of our friends and relatives.  The pictures of cousins Anna, Maxwell, and Meredith are squished and bent from your manglings, and we have many more on the fridge that you look at whenever you can.

Another fun event was a visit from Grandma Cheryl and Grandpa Denny.  Daddy and Grandpa did a lot of yard work, and you had so much fun being outside with them.  Grandma Cheryl put you in a leaf bag, which you enjoyed, and you also got a kick out of rolling around on the ground.  You warmed up to them really quickly this time, maybe because we’d been looking at their picture and talking about them.  We’re going to visit next weekend too, so I bet you’ll be ready to party as soon as we get out of the car.

It’s so much fun watching you learn.  It seems like every day you’re doing something new, taking so much in and processing it.  You’re growing so fast, physically and intellectually, and I am excited to see each new discovery you make.

Next month at this time we’ll be gearing up for your first international trip.  You are an adventure guy, and it’s so much fun to see the world with you.

Thanks for the ride, my sweet boy.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

This is coming a day late, I’m sorry to say.  Today is your dad’s birthday, and we did our family celebration yesterday, which took up all my free time.  Everything’s a little more complicated with you involved; I can’t just run out and shop for a present or groceries for his birthday dinner whenever I want anymore.  Don’t get me wrong—you’re a delight, and I love including you in the things I do, but it definitely takes more planning.

Your dad requested a carrot cake, which was the same kind you had for your birthday.  You were much more excited about it this time around.  There was none of the trepidation you had when we first offered it to you.  No, this time you dived right in and went for a second serving when you finished the first.  I don’t know if you actually remembered it, but it’s possible.  Your memory is getting a lot better.  You remember things I never expect you to recall, like where your choo-choo train is.  Jessa told me that she read you a book for the first time that had a song associated with it, and later she sang the song out of context.  You crawled straight over and found the book with no prompting from her.

You’re doing so well at Jessa’s house now.  After some rough times at first, this last week you seem to have settled into a good routine.  You seem to be handling interactions with Jonah better, not so intimidated and more willing to play with him.  We are really hoping they don’t move away.  Jonah’s dad got a job offer in Texas, and it would be hard to find such a good situation with anyone but Jessa.  We’ll find out in the next couple of months.

The last month had us spending more time apart than we ever had before, and it was really hard on me.  I was working on a film, doing costumes, and it involved a lot of time on-set.  Your dad sometimes brought you to see me, and the two of you spent a whole weekend at the Hawkeye Motel in Washington, Iowa with me.  That was great, but it was no substitute for actually having a lot of time with you.  You were very popular on set, though, and you made a lot of friends.  Still, I’m glad it’s over now and we can have our weekends together again.

We made plans this month for our vacation, which will be to the Bahamas in May.  I’ve got everything ready to submit for your passport, and I’m so excited for you to get it.  I hope you love to travel and love the ocean like I do.  It will be wonderful to share those things with you.

In the meantime, you are a walking maniac.  You started with hesitant toddles, walking up to a big box and knocking it over, then plopping down on your bottom.  Since then, you’ve gotten a lot more confident, and now your dad and I really understand the phrase “the pitter patter of little feet.”  We hear that slapping down the hall so much now, and it’s about the cutest sound in the world.  You still crawl, especially when you want to get somewhere fast, but it won’t be long before your bowlegged little steps turn into a full-on run.

I’ll catch you if I can.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Miles,

I wasn’t sure I was going to keep doing these after month 12, but so much has happened this month that it seems a shame not to write about it.  Besides, you’re still my favorite guy, so why should I stop acknowledging your monthly milestones?

This month marked some really important things for you.  You started going to Jessa’s house three mornings a week, which was hard at first but is getting better every time.  I think you’re beginning to see Jessa as one of your trusted big people, and you and Jonah are pretty hilarious together.  You don’t really play together, per se, but it’s cool to watch you manage a world in which you’re not the only little dude.

I’ve been working on a film this month that’s been taking a lot of time away from you, and I miss you so much I can hardly stand it.  I am really looking forward to it being done so we can have quiet weekends together again, with walks around the neighborhood and trips to the library and leisurely lunches. It will be over before your 14-month birthday, I promise.

The separation anxiety (for both of us) has been a kind of hard, though it’s getting a lot better at Jessa’s.  Yesterday, however, daddy’s cousin Katie came over to babysit you for a couple of hours, and it didn’t take you long to figure out that I was leaving without you.  It still chokes me up a little to think about the way you stood with your face pressed into my knees, crying so loudly that I could still hear you after I went out the front door.  It was bad timing—you were ready for a nap.  Sadly, Katie said you cried for forty minutes until you finally fell asleep.  When you woke up your dad was home, and he assured me that you felt much better.

Grandma Cheryl came to visit today, and when she first arrived, I guess you thought she was another babysitter.  It didn’t take you long to realize we weren’t leaving, though, and that Grandma Cheryl is lots of fun.

You took your first significant steps this month too.  As I mentioned in the video we took of the event, I had always envisioned you taking your first steps into your dad’s or my outstretched arms, but instead you found a big box you wanted to knock over.  You’d stand up, walk to the box, push it down, laugh, and repeat.  You’re still nervous about walking very far, but your confidence is growing every day, and soon you’ll be all over the place, I’m sure.

Your sleeping habits have much improved in recent weeks.  You’re happier to sleep in your crib for longer stretches, though you still spend most of the night with us.  But your dad and I have been able to catch up on some TV shows and have a little time together in the evenings, which makes everybody happy.

I went back to work half-time, and while I don’t regret for a moment the year I spent at home with you, it’s kind of nice to be back in the grownup world.  I do miss you, though.  Your dad and I have been staying for a few minutes to play when we drop you off at Jessa’s, and I always want to just stay there and watch you and Jonah yank on the cat and knock over blocks and bang the xylophone.

One cute thing that you’ve been doing is trying to imitate your dad and me when we snap our fingers.  You haven’t figured out how to make any noise, but you move your fingers and smile excitedly. You’re just so ready and enthusiastic about participating in the grown-up world.  You want bites of my cereal instead of your Elmo-O’s.  You never want to be left out of anything.

Today your dad installed your big-boy carseat, a front-facing model that lets you see outside.  You seemed a little confused at first.  You looked around and said “Da-da,” maybe surprised that you could see him.

Welcome to the big-kid world, Miles.  It’s all forward-facing from here.

My little boy.

My own little boy, just for me, whom I don’t have to share with anyone: not daddy, not Mubby and Skittergramps, not Grandma Cheryl and Grandpa Denny, not Uncle Tyler or Uncle Michael. I mean, I do share you with them, and I will continue to, but you’re mostly mine. Soon I’ll share you with Jessa, your care provider, and later with more teachers and classmates and prom dates and coworkers, but I don’t want to think about that right now.

My little boy.

After a year of life on the outside, your personality is pretty well established. The words people use the most to describe you are bright and curious. Those things are definitely true: your big blue eyes take in the world, and you want to learn everything about it. If there’s a drawer, you’ll try to open it. If there’s a door, you’ll look behind it for a boingy-boingy.

Maybe you get it from me. When I was a little girl, I loved doing experiments. Some of my experiments had an actual scientific basis (these were the ones I copied from Mr. Wizard’s World or the various books of experiments for kids that Mubby and Skittergramps bought me). Other times I just mixed things together to see what would happen.

One of those times when I was mixing together household items with no clear goal, your Skittergramps asked me what I was doing. I said it was an experiment. He asked me what my experiment was trying to prove, and I didn’t have an answer. It hadn’t occurred to me that experiments needed to prove anything. I wasn’t much of a scientist then. I’m still not, really, except recreationally.

This year has been sort of an experiment. I read a lot of books and tried to do things with an actual scientific basis, but other times I just poured a bunch of stuff together and hoped for the best. Fortunately, a lot of what makes you wonderful was out of my ham-handed control. After your bath today, I put you on the bed as usual and started in on our lotioning routine, in which I attempt to lubricate your skin with lotion while you squeal and giggle and try to escape. I was spreading lotion on your back, and as you twisted out of my grasp, I felt the rise of your tiny shoulder blade.

I don’t know why a shoulder blade should feel so miraculous to me. For one thing, I don’t believe in miracles. I believe in science. Second, I see shoulder blades every day. I have a set, your dad has a set; they’re really not exotic. But something about seeing that perfect wedge of bone move under your muscles and skin made me marvel at what a fantastic working machine you are.

Your daddy taught you a trick. If he holds a toy in each hand, then helps you to standing, he can release the toys and you’ll stand by yourself for a while. I tried it with you this morning and you stood independently for at least ten seconds. I keep trying to coax you to take steps on your own, because you’re so close, but in the end (so far) you’re too scared to do it by yourself. You reach your chubby little hand out to mine, and once you’re securely holding onto me, you walk where ever you please.

What makes me think it’ll be so great when you can walk by yourself? Why would I ever want to discourage you from reaching out to take my hand? It reminds me of an anecdote Mubby told me that she heard from Hillary Clinton. Hillary wished she hadn’t let Chelsea skip a grade when she was young because it would have meant one more year with her at home. Maybe if I quit with my efforts toward helping you stand and walk by yourself, you’ll spend a little extra time holding my hand.

Unlikely. You are an adventure boy. I’m sure you’re going to figure it out soon.

This month has marked the discovery a great source of adventures for you: the bathroom. You love to lean into the tub and peek at whoever is taking a shower, to pull the extra toilet paper out of the holder, and to open the toilet lid and reach your hands in. I wish you loved to wash your hands as much as you enjoy other bathroom activities, but mostly you want to fiddle with the faucets rather than actually wash.

You had your first Christmas this month, of course, which didn’t impress you much. You enjoyed taking bows off packages, but other than that, you were just pleased to have so many family members to play with you. You didn’t even complain too much when we put you in an elf outfit that Mubby bought you. You didn’t love the hat, but the little suit was okay.

You have nine teeth. You hardly ever bite me anymore. You laugh and smile and scrunch your forehead on concentration. You shriek sometimes in anger, sometimes in delight, and sometimes just because you haven’t shrieked in a while.

You are better than the experiment where you sprinkle pepper on water and stick a soapy finger in the middle. You are better than the experiment where you dangle a paperclip in sugar water to make crystals. You are much better than the experiment where you mix together ketchup and water and food coloring and noodles. That one is just gross.
Since I now know that experiments ought to try to prove things, what has this experimental year proven?

• Doctors don’t laugh at first-time moms and dads who bring their kids in about totally innocuous stuff. That’s why the doctors make the big bucks.
• Blueberries and cherries are not only high in antioxidants, but also high in comedy value when they end up all over a baby’s face.
• I will always be your mommy. Always, always, always. When I’m 101 and you’re 70, I’ll be your mommy. Please remember all the times I changed your diaper and cleaned up your puke and pretended to understand what you were talking about when it made no sense.

Miles, you are my best experiment ever.

Love today and for the rest of your life,

Mommy

P.S. You love lip balm.

Dear Miles,

Dare I say it?  Has this really been your most exciting month yet?

You’ve made huge strides this month, literally:  you’ve loved to walk while holding someone’s hands for months now, but over the last weeks you’ve graduated to giant steps (your Skittergramps calls it goose-stepping, but we’re trying not to encourage that particular analogy).  You want to walk up stairs, and you don’t do it the weenie way of stepping up with one foot and bringing the other up to join it.  No, you want to do it grownup style and alternate feet, one step per foot.  You can pull yourself up on the table, the couch, the hearth, and (your favorite) the edge of the bathtub.  You can cruise between pieces of furniture when you’re feeling really ambitious, and when you’re willing to take a break from standing up, you can crawl so fast your dad and I have trouble keeping up with you.

This sudden upswing in mobility has forced us to do some emergency babyproofing, which so far is working out okay; you haven’t stuck any forks into outlets yet, though you’ve eaten many a stray Teddy Poof off the floor.  It’s hard to keep up with the sweeping when the Poofs fall faster than snowflakes in a blizzard.

Speaking of snowflakes, you experienced your first ones this month.  We were visiting Mubby and Skittergramps around Thanksgiving time, and lo and behold, there was a brief storm of fat, fluffy snowflakes.  We took you outside to check it out, and your little face went from confused to interested to delighted.  You laughed as the snowflakes melted on your nose, and you grabbed for the little piles that had gathered on horizontal surfaces.

The cold has lost its charm, now.  You aren’t so crazy about getting bundled up, especially if it means getting wedged into your carseat with all your layers on.  You look adorable in hats but are always trying to get them off.  Mostly we’ve been staying inside the last couple of weeks, save a brief sledding expedition that had about a 3:1 preparation-to-activity ratio.

Thanksgiving was probably the most exciting event of the month.  You got to see lots of relatives, including all your grandparents, dozens of cousins, and Uncle Michael.  Uncle Tyler couldn’t make it home, but you talked to him on the phone (or rather, we held the phone up to your ear and Uncle Tyler talked, and you whipped your head around in confusion, trying to figure out where he was).

You have a newfound fascination with babies, which was well-timed considering your recent hang-outs with brand-new cousin Emma and your contemporary, cousin Anna.  Those names are probably going to be confusing for you in the future, but for the time being, you are crazy about both of them.  You smiled and laughed at tiny Emma and wanted to crawl into her bouncy seat with her, and you wouldn’t keep your hands off Anna’s face.  All eyeballs remained in their sockets, thank goodness.

You still haven’t said mama or dada, but you’ve been saying a lot of baba lately.  It doesn’t seem to refer to anything in particular, but from a linguistic perspective, it kind of splits the difference between mama and dada (d and b are both occlusives, and m and b are both bilabials).  Maybe you just don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by saying one before the other, so it’s a collective term.  That sounds like you.  You’re empathetic.

You definitely understand many words and phrases, such as “brush your teeth,” “not in your mouth,” and “Miles, did you take off your socky-bock?”  That last one is usually met with a naughty grin.  I cannot keep your socks on you, and you yank them off even though you know it breaks the rules.  So far the only way I can keep your socks on is to put shoes on over them, so you’ve been wearing shoes a lot, even for naps.
We’ve been holding off on quite a few foods for fear that premature introduction could cause allergies (you’re at risk due to your dad’s asthma), but dairy, wheat, and sugar get the green light at the one-year mark.  Rather than introduce you to a host of new things at once in the form of a birthday cake that might blow your little mind and possibly bowels, I think we’re going to start small and give you a little bit from those food groups this month.  I picked out some yogurt for you today.  I bet you’ll like it.  It’s fruit-flavored.  You love fruit.

This also marks the last full month that I’ll be home with you.  It’s wonderful that my employers were flexible enough to let me work from home for the last year, but it’s really becoming infeasible.  You just don’t spend as much time lying quietly as you used to, so it’s hard for me to get any work done.  Plus, you’re getting big now, and it’s time for you to have some adventures with other kids.  You’re going to spend three mornings a week with your friend Jonah and his wonderful mom Jessa.  That means two mornings a week with Daddy, who’s going to use flex time, and every afternoon with me.

It will be good for you.  It will be good for me.

Right?

My boss is a mom, and she’s already told me she understands and that it’s okay if I spend my whole first day crying.  I might have to stretch that to the whole first week.

I’m sort of fond of you, see.

Love,

Mommy