Dearest Danjo,
You are my baby.
Even though you're nearly two years old. And need to start getting your act together. Before I kick you out of the house, Missy.
You have certainly entered your terrible twos, in this, your second year of life. You hit. And yell untranslated profanities. And throw yourself on the ground. And yell "NO" in response to almost everything and anyone, except your buddy Lolopop. You continue to get into and onto your environment, particularly if the objects around you seem to pose a physical threat or challenge.
You've begun to utter decipherable phrases, mostly to express your desires:
Iwandown = I want down
Iwanwapu = I want water OR I want Lapu
Iwanuppies = I want you to pick me up
Iwango = GET ME OUT OF THIS HOUSE BEFORE I EXPLODE
Idonwanit = I don't want it or DID YOU HEAR ME, LADY? I DON'T WANT IT. DAMMIT!
And a smattering of words, pronunced in a yet to be determined accent, e.g. cao = car, ca = cow, puppa = puppy/dog, et alia.
And when words fail, you do not shy from grabbing my hand, pulling with all your might and yanking me in the direction of your desires, until a series of yes or no questions confirms your six AM demand for jelly beans or your eagerness to go outside for a "run" (because you don't take "walks"--those are for mere mortals).
You are such a people person. You know how to make the people around you laugh, melt and generally cave to your every whim.
You are the child of a million looks. Your face makes expressions that cannot be captured by the English (or any) language; looks that are only done justice by being in your overwhelming presence.
I'm glad to have been forced by the state of my mental health to learn how to live in, be aware of and embrace the present. So I can capture, preserve in my heart, all those looks, all those hand tugs and all those adoring (i.e. manipulative) kisses and squeezes you dole out.
You, as children are wont to do, are growing before my eyes. A-mazing.
Nevertheless, you are still my baby.
And, holding you in the morning when you wake up, snuggling into my side, settling in, filling the empty space around my body where you belong--I soak you up and in. And the thought crosses my mind that you may be my last baby.
In my plan of plans and my mind of minds I was going to have, at least, another child. But, circumstances being as they are, there is a distinct, though not definitive--if I'm learning anything, it's that there is no such thing as defintive--possibility that you are my last baby.
So, we haven't weaned you off of a bottle (which you do prefer). And from time to time, you're afforded the luxuries of being a baby: being rocked to sleep, finding your way into our bed in the middle of the night, your wishes indulged. You're given the benefit of the doubt that you "don't know better" when it's very likely that you do.
Please do stop me when it seems that I'm holding on to something that's no longer there, living in the past. But, for now, I'll embrace the moment, in which, you're only twenty-one months old, not even two, still a baby.
Love you no matter what,
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