Month Thirty

Dear Henry,

It's official. You are two and a half years old today. Running is still your favorite thing, closely followed by picking your nose and donuts with sprinkles. Your language skills have kicked into high gear this past month. Oftentimes we can't get you to stop talking. Talk, talk, talk. I've read that as the primary care giver I should be able to interpret what you're saying but probably around half of the time I have no idea what you're talking about. So I go on conversational fishing expeditions to try and hook the words you say using your toddler speak with the real words the rest of us adult humans are using. For instance, the other day while waiting for your pops after work you said, "Where's dat stowbrakes?" Stowbrakes? Stowbrakes? Um. I got nothing. Let me try, "Store bake?" Store bake? To which you replied (slower, louder, and with diction), "No. Stow-brakes." It was said in a manner very similar to how stupid people talk to deaf people - as if going slower and louder is really going to help. It took me a bit longer but I eventually figured out you were asking about the snowflakes that hang on the outside of the World Trade Center building downtown during winter. This, of course, lead to a discussion about the seasons. I swear, the world must be endlessly fascinating when you're a tiny human.

You love to assign us roles and genders lately. I've been a mama squirrel, mama otter, mama fork, mama pteranodon (you say "peradon"), and mama of a host of other creatures and inanimate objects. You don't like it when I respond to this by calling you a Henry squirrel, but you are okay with baby Henry squirrel or the shorter baby squirrel. I'm usually a girl, papa's usually a boy but you seem to go either way, sometimes wanting to be a girl and sometimes wanting to be a boy. During a recent trip to REI you pointed to the cashier and kept saying (softly, thank goodness), "It's a boy. It's a boy, mama. It's a boy." It was not a boy but a woman with extremely cropped hair and virtually no boobs. I can see how you'd make the mistake but ask that you continue to be discreet with your comments since sometimes you are wrong. We don't want to hurt anyone's feelings.

There should have been a funeral because your last binky finally broke. I'm not sure you've completely accepted the loss as you continue to occasionally ask for it but we're moving forward sans binky. You seem to be just fine without it. I suppose the real test will come next month when we head to Mexico. There is a strong possibility that I'll buy an 'only-to-be-used-while-on-the-plane-to-and-from-Mexico' binky.
You are becoming quite the expert utensils handler. You still resort to the old two finger pick up when necessary but you'll try to nab anything on the end of your fork or spoon first. It's a bit messy at times, particularly when you're eating cereal or soup, but it's really awesome. Successful fork usage requires a sort of spearing of the food so you make smallish stabs at whatever you're wanting to eat until you manage to get a piece and then you're off and eating. Speaking of food - and I know most kids say this just like most kids say pasghetti instead of spaghetti - but you say "strawbrarries" and it's just about the cutest thing ever. I can't wait for strawbrarry picking.

Your frisbee throwing is spastic, Bean. I tell ya, being on the receiving end of those throws means you pretty much have to duck and cover and hope for the best. Your arm goes back, way back, and you twist and bend a little at the knees, and then, much like a slingshot, you whip the arm around and let go. You and your papa play airplane (he holds one of your arms and one of your legs and swings your around), helicopter (he puts you up on his shoulder and spins around), and the newly developed blimp (he holds you parallel to the ground and floats you around going "Blup, blup, blup. Blup, blup, blup,"). When you want to go higher or faster you add "too" before the action, as overheard saying while swinging, "too high, mama!" Although, really, if I push you any harder on the swing we're going to flip you around the top pole. Every once in awhile you'll do this little turn and pull movement with your head that you picked up from the movie Bolt. You love those pigeons. And you sat through your second full-length movie (How To Train Your Dragon) at the theatre.

Nights are hard. You don't want to sleep in your room anymore. Sometimes you'll scooch over so I can lie next to you in your tiny toddler bed, and when I get up to leave, you'll throw your arm over my arm and say, "stay right here, mama." Even if I leave the room, Bug, I'm not leaving you. So, GO TO SLEEP!

Love,

Mama