Month 23

by Ashley Weeks Cart

My sweet, wild, paradoxical Courtland Whaley,

You are nearly two full years old, and while I can barely believe that so much time has passed since your arrival, I’d wager that every stranger you meet assumes that you are nearly a full year older than your actual age. You are not only bigger than all the children in your classroom at school, you’re also taller than all the kids in the classroom above that. You level out with the three years olds. I am not exaggerating in the least.

I’ve worried that since you often choose to express yourself, um, physically, you might be causing some issues for your teachers and peers. They assured me, however, that you refer to all of your classmates as your babies and attempt to mother them accordingly. We see such affection at home frequently and it is the much needed antidote to your flails and kicks and hair pulls. I don’t even want to mention your biting because omg that shit is not happening and yet it has and James I are horrified but then you follow it up with sweet baby snuggles and STOP MESSING WITH MY HEAD KID!

And seriously, no more biting. Not cool. Not cool at all.

It’s clear that you are a physical kid. Whether hugging or hitting, human contact is central to how you operate. I’m convinced that this is because your language is far behind where your sister’s was at this stage, and so you are unable to verbally communicate and must resort to touch and physicality. I’m not worried about the language, it’ll come when you’re ready. You understand what we say to you and you are hyper-observant, methodically taking in your surroundings or observing how your sister plays or how your mommy and daddy are communicating. There is no lack of thought or emotion or understanding, just a rather premature handle of the English language. But, that will come, and in the meantime we’ll delight in your “Ma-mee” and “Dah-dee” and “Dis-der” and “Whyyyyyy.” And we’ve all mastered the appropriate blocking technique for your flailing limbs when you’re rendered frustrated by us not understanding your points and babbles.

In a bout of what some might refer to as a regression, you’ve taken to riding in the Ergo, front carrying. You point at the carrier, demanding “backpat,” and then pat on your tummy with both hands like jolly ol’ Saint Nick. It’s your way of ensuring that I put it on properly so that you and I are squished together, face to face. The feel of your body pressed against my chest with your arms scooped under your chin or draped up by my neck have saved me this week. And, well, I’ll happily carry you in the Ergo even after your feet drag on the ground. I don’t mind one bit.

I love you with all my heart, (not so) Little One.

143 Mama

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