When you turned 14 months-young over a week ago our family was in the middle of our annual summer barnstorming of the States. We were too busy adjusting time zones, sleeping in six different beds and reacquainting our bodies with sunshine and warm weather for me to stop and write you this letter.
But now we’re back in London, and I know I brought back an older Jonah than the one who spent half the outbound flight to Washington having a play date in the aisle in Coach with another toddler. You make the party, among other things.
I know you’re older because just last week your top two middle baby/milk teeth broke through. Five months I have been waiting. Not sure why. Maybe I was worried you would be an inferior vampire should that be the career path you one day choose.
Every single day I think I can’t love you any more or think you are any more of the greatest human being on earth. And then I wake up the next day to be proven wrong. When will I learn? I think you want to stand so badly and you have already provided hours of entertainment with the way you “frog” around with your legs tucked under you, scooting from place to place on your bum. Your expressions are priceless and that’s just another reason I am glad you decided to forego crawling. I get to see your face.
You’re hilarious and clever (one time you did the stacking rings in size order- I called The New York Times just in case they wanted to break the story) and people always tell me how smart you are, so of course I believe them. You know what else I believe? The strangers every single day that stop me in restaurants and elevators/lifts and everywhere to tell me how beautiful you are. Maybe some moms say that happens to everyone. I don’t think so. And obviously I am objective here.
You are a nonstop smile-machine, charming everyone in your wake. I swear your blue eyes twinkle when you smile. In about fifteen years you’re going to be Trouble. The good kind.
I can’t believe how blond you are. It never occurred to me that could happen. And just now that we have had two consecutive weeks of being outside in the sun, it’s even lighter. Our towhead.
The two weeks also meant you went to your first Mets game. Santana pitched a complete game shutout against The Rockies. I had to check with Daddy to type that correctly. But one day you will care. A lot.
You discovered stairs and how to master at least one. You got to wrestle with your cousins. I saw the look on your face when Aidan or Shea would come your direction. Utter bliss that they would pay attention to you.
People like to tell us you’re a dead ringer for me. Or for Daddy. Or a combination. I’ll take it.
I keep thinking I’m going to miss it when your prolific and theatrical babbling turns into real words. Unless those words somehow indicate what the winning numbers might be in the next drawing of EuroMillions. Or that you think I’m doing an okay job.
You know what my favorite thing of the past month is, though? The discovery of your second freckle. Number two is near your cheek and it is most likely the cutest, most perfect freckle in the history of humankind. It amazes me beyond my comprehension of amazement that before my very eyes I get to witness the constellation forming. In real time.
You’re my monkey.