happy 18 months, boo!

Dear Jonah,

As I type this, you are sitting on my lap, even though I vowed to minimize your exposure to video screens until age 3. No matter. You aren’t interested in the screen. You’re playing with a tiny hand-painted matchbook shrine I brought back from New Mexico before you were born. It has a butterfly on the front, which you like very much. You call it a Bai or a Buh-flai. Inside is a “Tainee Dohl,” and a capsule full of “Durt” that is purported to have healing powers. And on the bottom of the inside of the box is a lotteria card of La Mano, to which you say, “Hai Faive.”

This morning you played your new favorite game. You point at me and say, “Whooozat?” and I say, “I don’t know. Who is it?” and you say, “Mommy!” and then I point to you and say, “Who is that?” and you smile and say “Joe-nahhh!” or I say “Jonah” and you say “Jonah-Boo!” Because you’re my Boo and you totally know it.

And of course we played your oldest favorite game. If we could enter the Guinness Book for the longest running Peekaboo, you’d totally win. We’ve been playing since you were about three months old. It’s gotten more complex over time, but the bones of it remain the same.

For the life of me, I can’t find the blog post that would mark or describe when you first started putting fabric on your head and kicking and giggling. If any of you can find it, the first one to do so I’ll send you a TCBTS mug! I did find this video which was between age 3 months and when the hat was sadly lost:

Now, whether you are hiding around the corner of a door frame, or under a bed sheet, or hiding behind my back, or if I simply look in the opposite direction of where you are, or cover my eyes, or cover your eyes, peek-a-boo goes like this:

Sometimes, yous start it. You feed me my lines: You say, “Where did Jonah go? Can’t find him? He disappeared!” — which sounds like “Whered Joenahh goe? Cantfaindim. Peearrd!”

Or I start (because I know what you want) or I say my lines as directed, and depending on whether you are standing or lying down you stomp your feet or kick-kick-kick like crazy and giggle madly.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

You dance, you sing, you play guitar. You talk about what happened during your day, what you’d like to do “Tooo morrrowe.” You continually amaze us. You proclaim apricots “Delishus,” and your favorite jackets “Wondurfulll.”

You like to pick and gather the unripe plums in our yard. I can’t wait until they ripen and you discover their yummy goodness.

You walk! With both arms in the air like you’re still holding our hands. But now, you can carry one half of an apricot in each hand, or two stuffed animals, or two pieces of cheese. You sure like that.

You are such a person.

When you were little, like that whole first year, I think I was secretly waiting for you to be 18 months old. This is, bar none, the coolest thing ever. Even when you get mad at us and hit us and pull our hair and I’ve been trying to tell you not to hit, that you can tell us if you’re mad (use your words). But maybe it’s a little early for that. And anyway, if I think about it, having what little control you know over your life to be taken away from you by someone 5 x your size and often arbitrarily, well, hitting seems like the most logical response to me. And the arching and twisting and kicking and crying.

And throwing things even when you’re not mad, but just because it’s fun to throw things. How do I talk you out of that one?

Everything has changed so much and will change again, I’m sure.

We love you, Boo!