Keaton, my son. You spent the majority of this month trying your best to kill me. Don’t deny it, I’m onto you and your toddler boyhood wiles. Some months you do a little of this, a little of that. You might spend one week being mischievous, one week being cuddly sweet, the next a little whiny- you get the picture. Not this month- HooooooooNoooooooo. This month you spent every waking minute, Testing. Our actions, our reactions, and above all else, our patience.
You do something firmly under the Naughty category once. See our reaction, then take careful note of the actions we take to prevent you from repeating the act, then you go ahead and do it again- no matter if you have to scale a gate or sneak past us to commit the crime again. You must be CERTAIN that we will react the same the next time. And we do. “But will we a third time?”, you ask yourself and wash, rinse, repeat the whole thing 702 more times or however long it takes for you to dissolve into angry tears when we won’t let you, say, climb up on the coffee table and perform death-defying jumps or put mama’s hair dryer in the running sink water.
We love you my boy but we are so tired of not being able to turn our backs on you long enough to shove a bite of dinner in our mouths or, you know, pee without having to preform contortionist feats by craning our necks out the bathroom door while shouting KEATON! NO! STOP! and oh-for-the-love-of-christ I have just peed on my own damn foot. Again.
Your range and scope of disaster continues to amaze your father and I. Take, for instance, the case of the Mangled Boutonniere. After your dad foolishly submitted to the likes of me in a legal ceremony, I took the flowers that hung from his lapel that day and dried them as a symbol of his brittle new existence. Just kidding! I used to just really like pressing and drying flowers. Anyway it has rested, along with my wedding bouquet, atop a 6 foot tall glass cabinet in our dining/living room that I (OH GOD DON’T READ THIS MOM! YOUR HEAD WILL EXPLODE!) never ever even dust. (Someone please call and check on mom.) Then one day a silence so deafening fell over the house I just knew you were up to no good, and there you were- hiding on the far side of our bed, boutonniere in hand, plucked of all it’s petals which lay crushed on the floor. You looked up at me with your you-can’t-be-mad-at-me-look!-I-smile-just-like-you-do-when-you’re-being-a-shit smile and I was do damn confused as to how the hell you got the thing that I just kept asking you how you did it. You know how evil super-villains always tell the secrets of their brilliant schemes after they have been caught? I guess it doesn’t quite work out so well with toddlers- every time I asked, you just said “Fwoot shnack!” “Pwetzle!” What does that even mean, son? A clue? Oh. Yeah. You’re hungry.
The best though, was when we stayed over at Grammy’s house while our power was out because my mother has more damn nick-nacks and doo-hickeys and who-has than should ever be legal for one flippin’ household and at least 48.7% of them are smack dab at toddler eye level. Like “Oh, look at this lovely bowl of potpourri Grammy set out for me to snack on”, and “Here is my friend The Wicker Duck which I shall now smash and bang against, hmm… let me see…the leg of this shiny baby grand piano!”. Your crowning moment was when you somehow sneaked into grammy’s vacuum-cleaner-lined-you-are-only-allowed-in-this-room-at-Christmas-time living room, saw the $600 antique porcelain baby doll laying ever so pristinely in a vintage perambulator (oh my god I love saying that word. Best word ever invented.) and you walked into the kitchen with the doll flung over your shoulder while not-so-gently patting it on the back and shouting “BABY! BABY!” with a big ol’ grin smeared across your face. I swear to you it took 7 defibrillators to bring me back to life. These are the sorts of acts that will get us Gunters cut out of the will. NO NO, son.
So these little vignettes are quite honestly how most of our days go. We get out to parks and on long walks with the hopes that you just need more exercise, but no. You just really like getting into shit, no matter how ragged we try to run you.
Language wise you have really started to string words together. Your favorite phrases currently are “I see you!” “I get it!” “Come on!” “I commin!'” and “I do it!”. You’ll notice the exclamation points on the ends of all these phrases. That’s because you yell them all at the top of your lungs. Your voice only seems to register one volume and that is Really Frapping Loud. Speaking of loud, that is just the volume you yell out your favorite word of all, Trucky! Except you used to pronounce it Twucky, and somehow in the last month you started pronouncing all your t’s as f’s. So we’re out in the driveway and you shout “FUCKY! FUCKY!” and I have to shout like an idiot, “YES, KEATON. T-T-T-TRUCKY. TRUCKY.”, every time because while my family finds it absolutely hilarious when small children swear, I’ve found that the general public doesn’t share our sense of humor.
You are perfecting a monster truck voice that is going to make your father very proud one day. If daddy could pick any job on earth, he would pick Voice Over Guy, so he could yell at you from the TV: “MONSTER TRUCK MADNESS! KID’S TICKETS JUST 5 BUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKSSSSSS”. Now when you see a big vehicle you like to announce it in your monster truck voice and I have to admit, you’d have a future in it if you could only learn to pronounce truck correctly. Otherwise you’ll never get past the censors.
You say “Gooze me!” after you burp or toot and follow it up with “Swamp baby!” So cute.
Meal times are so god awfully messy with you, child. Everything must be smushed or mushed with your fingers and then put on a spoon. You must have a spoon for every. single. meal. And if I don’t have the foresight to place one on your tray because I have served you pizza, which you do not need a spoon for, you simply shout “POOOOOONNNN!” over and over again until the windows burst and the walls cave in and I just give you a damn spoon to shush your mouth and you immediately transform from angry and indignant with a serene, polite “Dank EWE!”. OMFG IT’S JUST A SPOON, BOY. I think I’m going to put one on a string around your neck. It may be the only way you are ever truly happy.
Music continues to be one of your favorite things. You get the biggest smile when we put in Wiggleworms or Jim Gill CDs but your favorite is still Adele- you hum and sing along with Daydreamer and I get all mama-love-choked-up because shut up you would too if you were subjected to such ridiculous baby cuteness.
As far as your sleep routine goes all I have to say is I LOVE YOU, YOU ARE THE BEST SON A MOTHER COULD ASK FOR. During vacation our schedule got totally out of wack. We kept you up until between 8 and 9:30 most nights, then you would sleep until between 8 and 9 in the morning except for that one day you slept until almost 10 AM (10 AM!!). Your naps were all over the board because of trips into towns and such so some days we’d put you down around 1ish and others not until 4, and you took it all in stride. You were an amazing little trooper and though we have you back on a consistent schedule you are still sleeping in to somewhere around 8 every day and this is the sort of thing mother’s dream of Keaton, so THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU.
The cogs and gears in that head of yours are truly moving at a quicker pace and we can see your independent streak starting to take shape. I had a hunch (being your mama and all) that you would grow to be an amazingly curious and cunning little person but you still amaze your dad and I every day. And though it’s definitely a challenge to keep up with your craftiness, you make up for everything when you wrap your chubby little arms around our knees or press your cheek against ours. We love you.
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