Little Dash

Dear Nutbag,

I seem to spend so much time freaking out about the stuff of growing up a boy (oh my god, will he nap!? is the floor clean enough!? will I ever be able to watch him eat a Cheerio!?) that I forget to remark in any permanent way about all of the little things you do that crack me up or melt my heart or scare the hell out of me. But today I'll give it a shot because you, my son, are fucking compelling (thank god you can't read or you would totally be learning the eff word right now).

It is completely unpredictable what will make you laugh. I could make funny faces and zrrburts until the end of time and you'd just look at me like "Lady, step it up. This is the majors." But strap you in and feed you some pureed carrots? That's the funniest thing EVER. Daddy doing the "dun dun" sound from Jaws? Comedy gold. Pulling mommy's hair is pretty hilarious to you, too. Unless you're just mean & you like it when mommy winces.

You hate all of your toys.

Mommy: Dash, may I offer you this think-tank-approved-rattle-smart-maker gar-ON-teed to increase IQ by 25 points?
Dash: Yawn. I'll take that copy of Good Housekeeping please.

Mommy: How about this light-up bear with a vocabulary bigger than mine?
Dash: Pshfft. I'll take that salad bowl full of Tupperware, thankyouverymuch.

Mommy: Oh, Dash, lookit! A board book with textures! And funny animal faces! Nice bunny. Nice horsie. Sooooooft.
Dash: Nah, I'll just reach behind you--excuse me--and chew on this blanket.

You love remote controls so much that you have two of your own. TWO! But they're not good enough! You want the real one! You're not fooled! Also, paper. Oh my god, dude, you chew paper and it makes Mommy gag. Seriously. It's disgusting and you should stop. I'm thisclose to handing you some beef jerky in trade.

When one of us comes home and you're on the floor you just start slapping it with your open hand until we pick you up. It is the most adorable thing ever. I know you wish you could run up to us, or at least give us a, "Wassup, Mommy & Daddy!" But all you can do is pound on the floor. It's the helplessness that makes it extra-delicious.

You've just figured out how to get from prone on your belly to sitting down on your buttsky. And it is truly your favorite thing in the world to do. I wish I could describe it (this would be a good time for that whole video-posting deal, huh?) but it looks like breakdancing to me. There's some spinning with one leg out and some anti-gravity effects for sure. When you really get going you'll just do circles: tummy to ass, tummy to ass, tummy to ass.

It's slightly less adorable at 2am when you can't complete a round in your crib so you scream bloody murder until Mommy comes and gets you so you can practice your skills some more. Although I guess I admire your tenacity. I hope you work that hard at buying me a phat Escalade with 22s.

I just realized there's no organic way for me to end this. I am not out of things to remember about you. I'll never be out of things I want to remember about you. Seriously. Every breath. But I'll stop here. For today.

I love you,
Mommy