Jack, you are 18 months old, which doesn't seem possible. Actually, you were 18 months old a few days ago, but you are baby #2, so your big milestones don't always get prompt attention. Sorry about that, dude. Also, it has been a year since I put pictures in albums, so someday if you find dusty boxes of yourself at the pumpkin patch or the tree farm or the yard and you see Harry is all those places on album pages, sorry about that, too.
This is you the day after on your 18 month birthday, which you celebrated by shitting your pants at 5:40 a.m. and coming in our bed. On a Saturday. We stayed up late to celebrate the big 1-8 by drinking a bottle of sulfite-free yippie wine, so 5:40? Not good for us. That's why we kept telling you to go back to sleep instead of changing your pants. I thought that smell was your dad's breath. Which? An honest mistake, I assure you.
Still, you were snuggly and kept throwing yourself down on the pillow when I would hiss at you that it was still night night time. Each time I fell asleep (not an easy task with that smell! and those kicky little feet in my throat!) you would wake me up with a giant kiss, accompanied by an earful of mouth and a large "muah" sound.
Here we are at the grocery store where we spend our Sunday mornings. Your dad and Harry were with us, but they left for a second to run next door to the party store and buy a bag of plain balloons because the one attached to your cart? Was our 3rd balloon of the morning, and Harry lost his marbles when balloon #2 hit the rafters.
You actually are a really sucky grocery store helper these days because you like to reach behind you and pull things out of the basket and eat them, plastic and all. Not cool. You are very good at spotting Dora the Explorer on all manner of processed food packaging, though. And I have to break your heart a thousand times when I tell you no D-d-d (that's what you call her) cookies or fruit snacks or HFCS crunchies or whatever the hell she's shilling. As we breezed by the canned soup while scouting out steak for our tacos, you saw her on a can of condensed sodium o's or some crap, and I bought it because it was the least unhealthy Dora product in the store. Nice work my little licensed character lover.
You also saw these jammies at Target and wanted them so badly we had to get some for you and for H. When you saw them in the store you screamed, "Zhuh," which is what you call Buzz Lightyear, and when you saw them on yourself, you almost vomited with delight:
You love your brother so much, but you wish he would stop hitting you. I think you feel bad when you have to bite him, but you are a baby who doesn't take no crap from no one, so you don't have a choice, really. The other day, Harry pushed you away with both of his hands, and you fell on your butt. You looked sad for a moment. The you screamed, got up, stalked over to Harry, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and head butted him until he fell down. Then you bit him on the stomach. Then you walked away and sat down on a bean bag chair to read a book. Your dad and I watched you slack-jawed and a little intimidated.
You, Jack, are the baby who made us want more babies because that is how wonderful and adorable and sweet and fragrant your are. As you toddle away from babyhood and toward preschooldom (seriously-- you. preschool. next fall. crazy) on legs that have calf muscles on the bottom and rolls of fat still on the thighs (that goodness), we miss the tiny you as much as we can't wait to meet you the little person you'll be. That's why you have a straggly baby mullet and wear snap-crotch onesies and still drink a bottle when you want one-- because we're hanging onto baby Jack just a little longer.
Here you are ecstatic because when you stand on the little stool, you are finally tall enough to stick your head in the polar bear cut-out at the zoo. You were totally blissed out toddling around the empty zoo-- empty of people and, strangely, empty of animals, except for the seals who were totally showing off.
Here you are doing your best trick, Jack-Jack.
Thanks for humoring me, little buddy. I love you.