Man Child

W is just beyond the thirteenth month mark of life but in just the last few weeks, he has grown into what hints more of a young man than a toddler. Some moments he’s as stoic as Abe Lincoln and will sit completely still with a serene expression on his face despite one’s arm flapping efforts to get a rise out of him. His reaction (or lack thereof) makes you feel silly for trying.

He pushes his walking toys around the house like a wheelbarrow racing champion, arms stiffly extended, head down while taking long, determined steps.

He calmly sits in the Hubs’ lap for chunks of time pointing at things around the room and asking questions about them in babble-speak. Of course the Hubs doesn’t speak babble but he pretends to. It’s a sweet dialogue between father and son.

W curls up on the couch with at least two baby blankets and quietly drives the TV channels to locations we didn’t know existed. We’re waiting for the cable bill to arrive. I’m afraid he has purchased some programming (Elmo Does Sesame Street) on his own.

He’s also grown a macho pair side burns and a rockin’ mop that some days is straight as a board and others, crazy curly depending on how much daycare sand is embedded in the follicles.

He’s now a perfect candidate for a Wal-Mart greeter with his 4-toothy grin and waving abilities. All he needs now is a blue vest.

He’s a freak for semi trucks, dump trucks, trains and his favorite, airplanes. Never mind the toy ones, give him the real thing. Driving down the highway is as great to him as is 75% off at Neiman Marcus for momma. Planes fly over and he freezes, looks up and silently points like he’s summoning the mother ship to take him back to Planet Zornkin.

He changes and evolves daily and the Hubs and I have lately found ourselves spellbound by his transformations. Of course not everything has changed (fits on the changing table, pacifier usage, the breastfeeding) but that’s okay with us.