Month Thirty-four

Dear Henry,
You are a talking and running ball of nonstop energy. It keeps us on our toes. With the talking, you ramble and explain. Rambling for you usually entails rapid conversational leaps from one topic to the next. And explanations always follow the word "because". With the running, well, you run. You also leap, hop, jump, climb, chase, sprint, and do somersaults. You remain curious. You really, really, really wanted to touch the jellyfish at the beach the other day. It took every ounce of your toddler strength to listen to your mama and I was proud that you did, although you got alarmingly close bending over to check it out. Your fearlessness makes me nervous but I'm trying to go with it. Then you took after not one but two girls who were running through the water. You would have followed them all the way down to the Mexico if I hadn't stopped you.

Your rambunctious behavior continues. You demand more, you expect more, and you are quite upset when things don't go your way. Dealing with this is challenging but also comes with great rewards. Because all of the unpleasantness is overshadowed by the good stuff. The cute kid moments that make us glad to have become parents. We are so lucky to have you, Bean. My favorite is when you've been told something you don't want to hear, usually "Okay, Hen, it's time for bed," and it makes you faux cry and ask for your mama and when I tell you that I'm right here, you request the other mama. The nice one who apparently lets you stay up late. Silly boy.

Your laughter bubbles up from the depths of your belly. It has a quasi-sinister Count Dracula-esque quality to it, and your whole body is involved. You sort of lean back and typically your arms raise with little fists clenched. All of your being is focused on the laugh. After it's release, you breathe and deflate. More times than not when we're being silly to get you to laugh you just look at us like we're crazy. But if we're dancing, you join in, especially if it's Led Zeppelin. We're old school that way. You'll thank us for that later. Most of today's music is crap. (Just kidding, that's what all of us old farts say before waxing nostalgic about the great music we had the privilege of listening to while growing up. Seriously, though, you can't mess with Zeppelin. Don't try it or we'll be forced to write you out of the will.)

You are beginning to like the water. I thought the swimming lessons we took when you were just a baby scarred you for life but you're coming around. You went to a pool party and after an unexpected dunking of your head, you didn't freak out and immediately clamber up out of the water. You sputtered a bit and then kept on playing! It was awesome. And while at one of the local water parks, you soaked yourself in mere seconds. I think you were particularly pleased to learn you could direct the spouting water to spray all over the place with your toe. That being said, I still have to do a kindler, gentler version of waterboarding to get the shampoo out of your hair and it is something you do not enjoy, which explains why we're only washing your hair twice a week. Speaking of your hair, it's freakishly long now. There isn't a stranger we alive that we meet that doesn't think you're a girl. It's doesn't matter that you're dressed all in blue from head to toe, that you're carrying dinosaurs and cars, and that I call you "Henry." I'm gearing up to cut it because I'm curious to see what you'll look like with shorter hair. And I'm thinking you might trip less if you could see where you were going.
Congrats are in order because you are now officially (as of several weeks ago) diaper-free at night. It took a great deal of parental courage to wake you up that first night when we decided to have you pee before we went to bed. You were so groggy you nearly fell over when I placed you on the potty, but you also peed. And then I carried you back to bed and you curled onto your side and went to sleep. A week ago, you came into the room to tell me you had to pee in the middle of the night so I took you to do just that. And two nights ago, I heard you get up and use the bathroom all by yourself before coming into our room to settle in for the rest of the night. Frankly, I think our work here is done. You met a new cousin and an aunt from Montana this past month. You had to part with your stinky Spiderman shoes (and have already put in a request to grandpa for new ones), you met the garbage man, who we learned wears ear plugs while working, which is why he never responded to your greetings before, and you're slowly working on becoming a more patient person. You're growing up, Bean. We're just happy to be your cruise directors.

Love,
Mama