You are JOY, little boy.
You live each waking hour with such zest and energy that I envy. When I sing "diaper, diaper" (to the tune of Dora's "backpack, backpack"), you run to our bedroom for a diaper change. You say and do things all the time that only I see and then you refuse to replicate them for your dad. It makes me look silly, but I know the truth. Your daddy can get giggles out of you that I can only dream of, but when it's time to snuggle you are mine.
You've been sick twice in two weeks now, most recently with your first stomach bug. I always considered us lucky that we'd made it this long without checking off that experience and thankfully, it appears to be a light one. I hate when you don't feel well because I know how miserable it is, but I do love the cuddling and snuggling and mama time that I get. You're too busy on normal days.
For several months, we've had a bedtime routine of pajamas, milk, then rocking to sleep in your room. As soon as your dad or I carry you to your room, your head is on our chest before we can even take a seat in the glider. I relish those moments but I'm afraid we've created a monster that will soon cause us all severe grief. We never should've started rocking you to sleep because now it is near impossible to stop, but we will... eventually.
You are perfection. You don't even have a freckle! I asked a dermatologist when things like that will appear and he said around age two. I love your smooth, perfect skin and I have a bottle of SPF 55 ready to go for our outside fun.
I wish I could put the love into words. The joy I feel when you look for me. The exuberance of feeling your little hand in mine.... like a big boy now, not a baby. As you grow, I can only hope that we can teach you love and tolerance. Patience and kindness. Peace and the knowledge to make good decisions. Hope and big dreams. Acceptance and humility. And always grace.
Seventeen months have flown in an instant. Slow down, little one. The world will always be waiting.