Dear Patrick,
Today you are nineteen months old. Before you were born, I had all these crazy ideas: I was going to do an awesome scrapbook for you. I was going to take a picture of you every day for the first year of your life. I was going to write you monthly letters so you would know what you were like when you were a baby (and so I would remember). Anyway. I hit one of those three goals, which was a total bitch. Hope you like your photo book. The scrapbook thing (and the letter thing) I've rationalized away using the 'But he's a boy, he won't care' reasoning. It's probably true. It's still a rationalization. You'll find that I'm very good at that sort of thing. If I had decided to do this sort of letter writing thing even on an infrequent basis, it would have made much more sense to do it at 12 months, or even 18, but well, here we are. Last week we just had your 18-month doctor visit, although the delay there was the doctor’s fault, not mine. Perhaps that visit is what has sparked this urge to write you a letter. You measured at 50th percentile for height and weight, and 99th percentile for head circumference. I got the biggest kick out of that. Your grandparents love to talk about how I was at 5% for weight and 95% for head circumference, so it is nice to know that we have that in common.
Lately you LOVE spending time outside. This is unfortunate since we are having probably the hottest summer ever recorded. You bring me your shoes and put on your little shark hat and grab my finger and pull me to the door. 'Door' and 'outside' are two of your favorite words. (I'm glad that you have these words, because I spent a good portion of your first year worrying about your development. Because you crawled funny. You'll be happy to know that in your second year, I worry less about you and more about me. I don't want to miss anything, and it scares me. Your grandmother tells me that she went to the doctor at least nine times during MY first year of life, convinced that she was dying, so it must be genetic. She said it leveled off around age 2, so here's hoping.) You also like to say 'ball,' normally while you're toddling toward one across the street in the neighbor's yard. Good thing we live in a family neighborhood. You cry when I leave the room, and it's simultaneously annoying and adorable and heart-breaking. And it pisses off your dad, because he thinks you don't do it for him, but you do. Every weekend you boys go off to have breakfast at Bojangles so every morning you ask for Daddy. (You also say 'sweet tea' very frequently, as you pull the jug from the refrigerator. I told your father he is going to take you to your first dentist appointment.) We go for walks every night, and I think you like it, but you no longer are content to be contained. You have to walk, too, or push the stroller yourself, or ride in your Cozy Coupe. You think it's hilarious if your dad or I let you go and run in front of the car. Your laugh is such a wonderful thing; it's so genuine and it’s hard not to laugh with you. You use this to your advantage when you know you're about to be in trouble. The pediatrician says that babies are not manipulative. I'm not sure when toddlers become manipulative, but I'm pretty sure you had a head start. You have been manipulating me from the minute you were born. Even before that.
You hate going to bed. I think it's because you hate being left out. You want to be a part of everything that we're doing. And I usually don't give in but I do cave when you snuggle up next to me and say 'baseball.' You seem to prefer throwing things with your left hand, and this delights me. Apparently kids don't pick a dominant hand until they are 4 or 5, but I think it would be neat if you were a southpaw. This is not a popular opinion; I know of at least two other moms who actively discourage their kids from using the left hand. They say it's too difficult to be a lefty in life. I'm not a lefty, but I disagree.
Your father and I are talking about maybe trying to provide you with a sibling. In case you hate that possible theoretical future sibling, I want to tell you why we are thinking about this. Well, I'll tell you my side. I think your dad has different reasons. My brother, your Uncle Kevin, and I fought A LOT while we were growing up. I don't just mean 'I'm not touching you' kind of fights. I mean hitting, punching, scratching, that sort of thing. We were mean to each other. We always tried to get the other in trouble. Looking into the future when you can read this, he probably is still talking about that time (he claims) I cost him his hearing by smacking him in the ear with a towel at Disney World. He can hear fine. But here's the thing: we have so much fun together now. We have the same sense of humor, we like a lot of the same things, we like to quote Armageddon at inappropriate times. We have a weekly lunch date, and we usually meet for coffee too. We have a shared history, and it's just so awesome. And more than anything, I want that for you. (Also, of course, someone to share the burden with when your parents are old. You know.)
There's a lot more I want to say, but it's going to have to wait until at least 19 months and one day. And let's be realistic: it'll probably be at least several months out. Anyway. I love you, Patrick, and I'm so glad you're here. It's so much fun to watch you grow up. (For now, at least.)
Love,
Mommy
