Here are the stats: you weigh 23 lbs, and are 31.75 inches tall. You have seen 730 days and nights. Your eyes are blue like Daddy’s, and your hair is strawberry blonde like Uncle Jeff’s, with little curls at the ends. You like hats and the colors blue and green.
You, our Roo, our TK, love snuggles and give good hugs. You attach yourself to a grown-up leg while watching construction equipment that’s too close, or when you hear a too-loud noise.
You are a great imitator and helper. You repeat almost everything we say, if not immediately then days or weeks later when we wonder where you might have heard that. Today at the park, I swept the gravel back into the gravel area with my shoe, and later, you tried to do the same with your little shoes.
Many of your words have an added syllable. You climb “stay-ehs,” hold “hay-unds.” You also drag out “okay”: “You want to [hold hands, etc.] okaaaaaaaay?” You have great enthusiasm: “Strawberries! Oh my GOODness!” Your enthusiasm is accompanied by great volume; we remind you to use your “quiet voice.”
You love being silly. When Daddy taught you “Sharks on the power play,” and then did Grandma Shark, you said, “Sharks on the Grandma power play.” You made up lyrics to songs from music class: “Tap your milk cup, old brass wagon…” You remember lyrics, nursery rhymes, parts of books.
You teach us to slow down, to notice. You “just look” (squatting down and not touching) at snails, at spider webs, at the bumps that mark spaces in the parking lot, at the uneven boards of the pier, at the flowers you remember the names of. I worry that you will hear a lot of “Hurry up!” from your siblings–or from me. Remind me to slow down and notice with you.
I admire your ability to draw connections between things you see and things you remember. I put on my Red Sox shirt yesterday, that I haven’t worn in months, and you said, “Go Sox!” You felt the fuzz on the lion ice pack and said, “Just like at the touch tank.” You speak in long sentences. You ask me to “hold you” and refer to yourself as “you.”
You did not inherit my weak stomach, as many of your favorite things involve spinning: the spinner cups, the merry-go-round; the sit-and-spin from the neighbors. You love riding tricycles; we might have to get you one.
You go at your own pace. You work on climbing up and down stairs; you are learning how to run “so fast.” Still sometimes you seem unsure of your own abilities. You are extremely cautious with your physical movement, and anxiously say, “You need help,” especially when getting down from something.
You are adventurous in other ways. You taught yourself to blow bubbles in the bathwater. You will try almost any new food. You swing on the big kid swing.
If you don’t get something you want, understandably you can get upset. “What can you do while you wait your turn?” works much better that us suggesting things that you can refuse. You can be remarkably stubborn (or not so remarkable, given your genes). You are generally very creative at coming up with alternatives for yourself.
You love people and animals; you have learned to ask dog owners before trying to get doggie kisses; you are (generally) gentle with Callie and other cats. You love seeing our neighbor’s dog Chuck and holding his leash. Your sunshine smile wins you lots of adoration.
I love you more than you can know.