My boy, boy...
Mama's been delayed in her posting. Delayed with crazy work productivity schedules and the planning of management encouraged "mandatory" retreats. Delayed because Mama is quite near exhausted and grumpy as hell. Delayed because when Mama gets home mostly she wants to crawl around on all fours chasing you in a wild game of "I'm Gonna Get You" or curl up watching your daddy give you your evening bottle in a place where she can watch the faces of both her two boys.
You're not walking much yet, although I've come to believe that it's not the strength or muscle coordination as much as it is that you're a cautious guy, afraid that a fall will mean failure. You're so very careful, sometimes standing propped against the couch or your daddy's leather chair waiting for someone to help you sit down again, whining if we don't pay attention and rescue you. Lately you've started making a triangle of your tiny body with your feet on the floor and your hands a foot or so in front of them, your own interpretive dance statement, certainly, representing the tepee and in honor of the Native Americans whose land we Hoosiers invaded. You're like that, the underdog. Or perhaps you're just practicing "Downward Dog" in yoga.
You laugh crazily at the cats, your bunny book, the rooster at the farm near your baby-sitter's home, baths, and when tickle monsters come to town. You eat most everything and when introduced to coconut cream pie signed the word "More" throughout the whole experience, just in case I wasn't spooning the creamy goodness into your mouth fast enough.
You continue to enjoy yourself by busting into the recycled diaper wipes container and pulling out a plethora of baby food lids, which you then scatter haphazardly throughout the living room only to be stepped on by unsuspecting parents in the middle of the night, or to be shoved down the back of your onesie and discovered while your parents are cleaning up a poppy diaper only to find the imprint of a Gerber's chicken noodle dinner lid on your bum. You don't need much to keep you happy.
Your spiritual life develops at a rapid fire pace as you press again and again and again and again the buttons of the Precious Moments hymn audio book which somehow surfaced in our home, perhaps a remnant from some crazy fundamentalist relative who wanted to bring you to Jesus after your heathen parents have failed you. Either that or George Bush had Homeland Security send it anonymously to the homes of democratic voters in an effort to raise God-fearing children.
Occasionally the book gets "hidden" under a chair or in the bottom of your toy-basket, but the heavenly angels seem to find it again and allow you to entertain us with your index finger as the Precious Moments figurine type people with scary, big, haunted eyes serenade us once again.
You and Daddy have been luxuriating in father-son bonding this summer while Daddy watches you throughout the days when he's home for the summer. So far you've spent your manly summer fishing for blue gill and trout in the pond near our house in your father's bass boat, taken an infant kick-boxing father-son course, purchased matching camouflaged onesie/speedo sets and learned to spit. It's been quite a summer.
In reality, your adoration for your "Dada" only grows. You cling to him like ivy on a tree and say his name with almost poetic reverence, which seems only appropriate as Father's Day approaches.
Know how much you're loved, my sweet. Loved beyond your mama's poor feeble words. Loved beyond reason.