You are nineteen months old. Over a year and a half! Closer to two than to one! The baby-ness melts from you by the day now, and sometimes by the minute. I think the main reason you seem so boy-ish rather than baby-ish lately is the way you talk. And oh boy, do you talk. You talk all day long, you know so many words and you add new ones at a constant rate. My favorite recent word is "crocodile." Just like that, very clear, four syllables, almost always followed by "aaaaaa," which is your version of the sound made by lions, dinosaurs, bears, and now crocodiles.
You have gotten descriptive lately. Doggy is now big doggy, chair is now high chair, car is now Mama car. Your favorite word is potty. You love to sit on the potty and go through all the motions, and you demand a trip every time you take advantage of your diaper. You always tell me about it moments after it is too late for the potty to do any good, but I wonder whether one of these days you will clue in and make it in time. I have no interest in potty training you at nineteen months, but if you are determined I won't stop you.
You are, well, frankly you are a menace. You can turn doorknobs and open doors, climb anything, start my car, blithely pluck childproof outlet covers from their outlets, and have just lately learned to open the gate at the bottom of the stairs. You have, by default, the run of the house that your sister didn't have for a full year later, and you are far too young to be anything but a series of accidents waiting to happen. You usually insist on walking down the stairs just like everyone else does, but you see it as a great chance to practice your "big jump." It is not. And I am glad you are so trusting that Mama will be there to catch you every time, but I wish you would cut it out.
You are constantly engaged in the composition and real-time performance of your No Opera. You yell no all day long, with or without cause, and in response to any provocation. Earlier tonight, when you were especially enraged that I would not allow you to play with the humidifiers, I asked you a series of 54 questions and your answer to all but one of them was "no." Where are your ears? No! Do you want some ice cream? No! Where is Mia? No! Are you sleepy? No! What's your name? Owen! However, your dedication to no has eaten into your tantrum time, and those have gotten a bit better over the last month. At least it is variety.
I have finally figured out how to get you to eat, most of the time, and how to get you to sleep fairly well at night, most of the time, but we haven't figure out how to get you to fall asleep at night in under an hour or before 8:45. Earlier bedtime, later bedtime, forced post-dinner three mile runs through the neighborhood, toys, books, no toys, no books, soothing music, no soothing music, nothing seems to have an impact. But most nights I am only up with you once and some nights and am not up with you at all, so it seems a fair trade.
Mia started back to school recently, and you are despondent. As soon as we drop her off, you ask for her. Every time I move toward the door, you get excited thinking we are going to get her. If we get into the car you start gleefully screaming her name and are crushed when I only take you to the grocery store. I hope the advent of Owen time will eventually make up for the loss of Mia. You do seem to be starting to enjoy the idea that we can take a walk and you can decide which way to go, that you can play with any toy you want, that Mama never tells you to wait just a minute while she finishes braiding hair or dressing princesses or checking feet for imaginary splinters.
And I am enjoying school. I am enjoying the chance to spend time with just you, to focus on just you, to see who you are when you get the opportunity to be the center of the world. I don't miss my baby boy anymore, because my little boy is such a joy.