Simon wore his pajamas to church on Sunday. Or at least his pajama pants. Under his Sunday pants. It was a compromise. He wanted to wear his full-on blue and green striped footsie pajamas and screamed and screamed while I put his shirt and vest and pants on him. Then I went to go do some other things and when I came back he had taken his pants off (he’s getting rather good at that) and was carrying around another pair of pajamas — the red ones with the blue and green cars that are a shirt and pants. He wore them again yesterday. All day. I tried to get him dressed, but he wasn’t having any of that and since I was a little under the weather myself, I decided not to fight that battle. Who am I to tell him he can’t wear his pajamas all day when I was still in mine at 2:00 in the afternoon?
On Monday he decided he wanted some juice. I told him I would get him some in a minute, but he couldn’t wait. He got into the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of lemon water and spilled it all over the kitchen floor. It was okay because the floor needed a good mopping anyway. Even though I’d mopped it less than a week ago. The fridge has his favorite door and he loves to pull the condiments out and line them up on the floor and leave them there. He has yet to break any bottles.
He also loves to listen to music and look at pictures of babies. Specifically, himself. We’ve gone through our blog archives several times in the past month or so looking at baby pictures and watching the videos of him sitting up and scooting around and laughing again and again and again and again. And again. It just never gets old. (Neither does turning the lights on and off.) As we scroll through the pictures he says, “More baby. More baby. More baby. Baby, baby, baby.” I think it is his favorite word. His favorite letter is ‘S.’ It is also one of two letters he knows. The other is ‘D’ and as we just started learning that one on Monday, he hasn’t developed the love for it that he has for the letter ‘S.’At his last doctor’s appointment he weighed 25 pounds 7 ounces, was 32 1/2 inches tall and had a head circumference of 51 1/2 centimeters. Which puts him in roughly at the 30th percentile in weight, 20th in height, and 97th in head size. That’s my boy. That’s my big headed little boy. Like an orange on a toothpick. The doctor again harped on me about his signs, even though he is gracefully making the transition between signing and speaking and is right on schedule with the “putting two words together” part of learning to speak. I think we need a new pediatrician. His first question every morning (or it could be a statement, I haven’t really gotten the hang of his inflections . . . or maybe he hasn’t gotten a hang of them just yet) is, “Da?” After getting over the fact that I am not his favorite (and I can’t really blame him, Micah is my favorite too), I try to break it to him gently that Dad has already gone to work. But that doesn’t stop him from asking several times a minute, “Da?” Just recently I realized that sometimes when I think he is saying “Dad” he’s actually saying “that.” So maybe it’s all in my head that he loves Dad more than me. Even so, sometimes it feels like I have good chunks of the day that are dedicated to distracting the boy from missing his father. For that I generally just give him his toothbrush. It has a suction cup on the end which means hours of fun with very little danger involved. On Monday he fulfilled all of our wildest dreams by trying to brush his teeth after he had stuck it to the side of the bookcase. To sum up: we like our kid, even though he is on the cusp of that stage of life commonly referred to as the terrible twos. But it is early yet, so we may change our minds in a few months.