You had to have two shots at the doctor's office today. On your half-birthday. I think that stinks. You took it amazingly well. "Yay!" said the nurse. "All done!" And you clapped your hands, still crying, with fat tears streaming down your face. I held you close to to nurse for comfort, and you giggled and scratched your Band-Aids.You're almost three feet tall, and you stand on your toes to be taller. You like to stretch up as tall as you can manage, and grab things you're not supposed to have. I'm glad you're testing your limits--I hope you continue to stand on tip-toe to reach the things you want--but it makes my job very, very hard. Too hard, I think sometimes. But then you help me mop up a puddle on the floor, or you hold your food out to share with me, or you say "baby" and cuddle your baby doll the way I cuddle you. And I think, Wow.
I don't really believe in reincarnation, but sometimes I think you've been here before. Either that, or you're the little boy who read the all baby books--read ahead even, so you'd be off to a running start when the next semester rolled around. You surprise me with your sweetness and overwhelm me with you much you know already.
One-and-a-half. You got here so fast. Slow down a little, monkey, and let me catch up for a minute or two.
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