18(ish) Months

Dear Tate,

Last week you turned 18 months old and we celebrated by injecting you with some chemicals so you don’t get sick. Yay, Science! Tate, I’m totally kidding. Not about the shots, you did have to get them, but my inference that they are not important. Your dad and I are very pro-vaccine and pro-western medicine, so I can only assume you’ll end up being a yogi aromatherapist who smells faintly of patchouli. I promise to love you anyway.

That’s what being a mom is all about, Tate. Loving you even when you do something silly. Like, for instance, pooping in the bathtub. Or clawing at me when you’re angry, leaving crazy scratches all over my body like some little were-baby. Or throwing grapes at my head because you saw your dad do it once (I totally caught that one in my mouth because I rule) and now you think it’s the game we play at dinnertime. While this is a fun game, maybe you could wait for me to sweep up the floor before you start grabbing grapes from the previous meal off the kitchen tile. Or at least wait until your dad leaves the room so I don’t get in trouble for letting you. We need to work as a team, Tate!

At your 18 month checkup, your doctor warned me that fun times were ahead. Soon you’ll be speaking in full sentences and writing equations in Mandarin! Or not. But you will be talking so much more and you’ve already started interacting in ways that were unfathomable only a few months ago. Your vocabulary expands daily, along with your love of your own voice, which is a lethal combination for my ears. Add in your love for anything that crashes, and you’re a screaming, stomping, KA-POWing machine.

Tater, you’re my little Bam Bam. You’re sweet and snuggly and love to play “nite-nite” as long as the game ends with you jumping on the bed. You have known how to say “mama” for months, but you never really said it unless you wanted something. All people you love (me, Lu, Grammy) are “dada.” Your dad, ironically, is not, as his name is “DADDEEEEEEEEE,” a word that can be heard from down the street whenever you spot his face. But this weekend I started clapping like a lunatic seal whenever you’d say “mama,” so that’s now your new parlor trick. “MAMAAAA!” you’ll yell, while clapping wildly for yourself.

Good job, little dude. I’m over here applauding like crazy.

Love,
Mama