Today is the 21st of October and you are 21 months old.
This morning it occurred to me that I won't be able to say something like that again until 2030, when you turn 21 years old on January 21st.
You're growing up so fast that I often forget how old you actually are, and have to count on my fingers to figure it out.
Sometimes I think that the Terrible Twos are beginning, but then you go and do something so sweet that my heart melts and I change my mind.
One day at school your teacher had to put you back in your seat for lunch, twice, and then, you got up a third time, this time knocking over your plate and spilling your entire lunch on the floor.
Shame, shame, shame.
But then, the artwork you brought home that day was about the Good Samaritan. Basically, a coloring page of two men; one giving water to the other, a band-aid stuck on the injured one, and two cotton balls glued on as clouds.
Did you catch that, A BAND-AID STUCK ON THE INJURED ONE...How sweet is that?
Melt my heart, sweet. My baby is the sweetest baby ever, sweet. He can do no wrong, sweet. That's how sweet.
The funny part of this is that I got the Good Samaritan story all confused and thought the Good Samaritan stopped to help Jesus on His way to the cross.
(Reserve judgement, please. I grew up in a Southern Baptist church. I may not know Bible stories, but by golly, I know the Romans Road!)
Anyway, before your daddy came home from work that day, I told him about your sweet Jesus artwork and how I didn't think I could ever part with it and how we have the sweetest baby boy ever! But, I didn't tell him what the artwork was exactly, because I wanted it to be a surprise.
So when he got home, he was all, "Babe, this isn't Jesus. The Good Samaritan stopped to help a Jew, not Jesus! What's wrong with you? You need to go back to Sunday School!"
And, I was all, "What? Huh? Oh yeah. Duh. Sorry, Foster. That's not Jesus, that's just some Jewish guy."
Guess I won't keep that piece of artwork after all.
When you're not at school, you're either outside or asking to go outside. And by asking, I mean saying "outside" over and over and over again. And then, if I don't respond, you start to drag all of your 'outside' toys to the door.
AND THEN, if the answer happens to be "no", you start to cry and are not easily soothed. I always get down on your level and calmly explain why we can't go outside right this minute, but eventually I have to walk away and let you do your thing.
It is sad, though. I won't deny it. All you want in life is to go outside. To play in the dirt. To kick balls. To pull up grass. To run "round and round and round." Is that too much to ask?
No, no it isn't. It's a very wholesome, easy request, but honestly Foster, somebody's gotta get supper on the table and that somebody is me.
You've started to say "hi" to everyone we pass on our strolls through the neighborhood. And, once again, it's the sweetest thing ever.
First of all, your little voice is so quiet and well, sweet. And then, secondly, you don't seem to be bothered when the people you're saying "hi" to don't say "hi" back. You just keep on keeping on until we pass a dog or a cat or a truck or a car or a motorcycle or a leaf or anything or everything, and then you comment on that. Whatever that happens to be at the moment.
A few months ago your Grandma was changing your diaper and telling you how big and stinky and lumpy it was, when all of a sudden you replied with, "big lump stinks!" (Who knew that the fascination with poop started before the age of two?!)
Your Grandma laughed, of course, and then began telling everyone about your comment, which in turn, encouraged you to keep on keeping on...BIG LUMP STINKS!...BIG LUMP STINKS!...BIG LUMP STINKS!
Then, one day this month you casually tapped your diaper and said "big lump stinks". Your daddy immediately knew what you were saying because he had just watched you pause during play to take care of business, so when he asked if you were poopy, without missing a beat, you tapped your diaper again and said "big lump stinks."
Folks, I think we're on the path to potty training!
In addition to feeding yourself with a spoon and fork, you can also drink from an open cup now. I'm constantly amazed at all the skills you naturally learn. After all, I work in a field with children who have disabilities and have to be taught this stuff. I'm not used to working with a typically developing child, so forgive me when I hover. I don't mean to be a helicopter mom, just to be a good mom.
One thing I have been good at is showering you with affection. Maybe too good. I've mentioned before that I cannot resist kissing you. Your plump little cheeks. I swear, I must kiss you a million times a day, and fortunately (or unfortunately) it shows in your play. (I'm a poet and...)
Anyway, lately when you're playing with your trucks, instead of crashing them into each other or racing them across the floor, I hear "goo-wa-key!" Which, when translated means, "trucks kiss!"
That's right, Foster, you make your trucks kiss. Noes to nose. Or, bumper to bumper. You get my drift.
Again, how sweet is that?
Suffice it say, I cannot get enough of you. You truly are a sweet boy.
In the evenings, when your daddy and I are lying in bed whispering to each other, one of us will inevitably ask the other, "how sweet is our boy?"
We both know the answer, so neither of us has to speak. We just smile. Sometimes giggle. Always thankful for the gift you are.
Dreams really do come true. Ours came wrapped in Baby Blue! ~Author Unknown