15 Months

Dear Mr. Tate,

Earlier this week you turned 15 months old, and look at me! I’m actually writing to you! I’m an overachiever, I know. When your sister was younger, I kept these letters up monthly until she was two years old, but this time around it’s been a bit harder. Mostly because I’m busier, but also because these days I’m much more cognizant of what these letters mean. When Lu was young, I was the only person I knew with a website or blog, and the only people who read it where my own friends and family. Facebook had just started out, where as I now update Facebook or Twitter daily with quick stories of you. The need for a monthly rundown just doesn’t seem as pressing as it used to be. So I’m probably going to be writing these fairly sporadically for the next year or so, until I have enough to put together a little book of stories about you (like I did for Lulu) that you can keep and show your own kids one day. Or if you decide not to be a father, you can show it to chicks at bars who will ooohhh and awwww over your baby pictures and decide to date you. You’re welcome.

You have changed quite a lot since your birthday. You run now, hardly ever taking the time to walk carefully anywhere, but instead hurling yourself as quickly as possible. This has led to many bumps, bruises and a few bloody chins. I am learning the difference between you and your sister in that you have not and will not understand the word danger. Or caution. Or unsafe. You throw yourself down stairs and on to wood floors and off playground equipment, and my job apparently is to catch you.

You have also developed what people kindly refer to as “a feisty personality.” This means sometimes you sort of act like an a-hole. An adorable a-hole, yes, but still an a-hole. You are the youngest in your room at daycare and the youngest at home, and I think this is extremely frustrating for you. You want to do everything that everyone else does, and when your little stature doesn’t allow it, the sparks fly. Here is a short list of things you like to do by yourself:

1. Brush your teeth.
2. Eat yogurt with a spoon.
3. Ride a tricycle.
4. Read a book.
5. Open a door.

Here is a list of things you can’t actually do, so instead you throw yourself on the floor several times per day, screaming and crying:

1. Brush your teeth.
2. Eat yogurt with a spoon.
3. Ride a tricycle.
4. Read a book.
5. Open a door.

Are you seeing a pattern, little man? The other day I was cuddling with your sister in bed and I said to her, “You are my little pumpkin.” She replied, “And Tate’s your screaming pumpkin!” That pretty much sums it up. You are so driven and determined, I can’t wait to see what you do as you grow. I think you will probably change the world.

You have started to learn new words and communicate in ways you couldn’t just a few months ago. Your growing list of words includes, mama, dada, ball, dog, no (always no) and, of course, baboon. Your favorite book is one about animals and the alphabet, and under the letter B is a baboon. Therefore, you think the word baboon means book. You run around laughing and piling up books, repeating, “Baboooon! Babooon!” It’s awesome. Is it mean if I don’t teach you the right word? Someday you’ll be a college professor and will be all “Class, let’s turn to page 264 in our baboons.”

I guess the biggest thing that’s happened in the past few months is that you’ve developed a breathing disorder. You have what are called Breath Holding Spells, in which your heart rate slows and blood pressure drops, causing you to hold your breath involuntarily until you pass out. It happened for the first time at home, but it was quick and I didn’t think too much of it. Then last week it happened at daycare and it was much more horrifying. I still cannot bring myself to watch the video of you, eyes closed and twitching on the floor while the teacher tries to wake you. Luckily, though these episodes are scary, they are relatively safe. There is no long term damage, and though you may have these spells for a few more years, it’s a condition kids grow out of by elementary school. I can’t describe the feeling, sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for a diagnosis. My heart was in my throat and I felt like I, myself, might pass out, while you played obliviously with your sister. The relief that washed over me when the doctor told us what was going on was so overwhelming, it took a few days for me to feel “normal.”

When I walk in to your daycare at the end of a long day, you usually don’t notice me at first. Your teacher will say “Tater, look who’s here.” You’ll slowly turn from whatever it is you are doing and see me. Your eyes get wide, and then your whole face breaks into a huge smile. Your little legs move as quickly as they can, running across the room, right into a huge hug. You love to hug and cuddle. You follow your sister around everywhere, hugging her every time she stops. You like laying in our bed, surrounded by blankets, with your thumb in your mouth and feet always rubbing each other (just like your sister and dad do). I am so lucky to have you in my life, as a part of my family. Thanks for being here.

Love,
Mama