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