Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Irregular Monthly Newsletter: 17 Months

This past month was the one where everyone notices, somehow, a discrete change in your height/weight/maturity. That month where people say "Boy, he's gotten big!"

You're definitely a little boy now, not our 'baby'.

And you know that about yourself as well. You are increasingly uninterested in sitting in dinner seats that look different than the rest or in cups with lids on them (although you will more often than not purposefully pour the liquid in the topless cups all over your front and, even while cringing from the probably-chilly drink, giggle at whoever is looking over at you, aghast).

You're starting to have little 'fits' when things don't go your way, but luckily you seem to understand the ridiculousness of the behavior, and it doesn't go on for long.

We avoid nice restaurants with you now.

Your soccer skills are improving as we attend your big sister's games and you can't be cooped up in the backpack, so we spend the hour kicking soccer balls back and forth.

But what trumps balls are bikes. I had an idea about your love of bikes, but when we ran into a bike-riding friend of mine after a long ride with his beautiful Trek and all of the awesome associated accoutrements, you went ape; touching, feeling, exploring and, ultimately, attempting to climb into the saddle. As he walked away with it, and us the opposite direction, I recalled that final scene in Casablanca as Bogart watched Bergman get into the plane and fly away from him. As I held Big (he couldn't be trusted on his own two feet because they would run to the bike), his arm reached out longingly and he cried for nearly half a block.

Now, whenever we're near a full bike rack its like heaven to you. During finals week at Macalester, we held "office hours" together at the bike racks; me talking to students about some nuance regarding the take-home portion of the exam and you moving from bike to bike, exploring all of their own peculiarities with an engineer's eye.

Your verbal development is at a standstill. When Seven reads to you at night from a book I got specifically for you (we didn't need it for her) with pictures of body parts, household items, and toys with their words beside them, she translates the "car" and the "train" for you with an emphatic "DOO!" and "DOO", and "Ball!"

We love you, sweet boy.

Here are a few snapshots of all things beloved by you (caveat on the quality: I'm just trying out a new, convenient, camera phone):

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