A year ago, your favorite things to do were sleep, nurse, and stare quietly into your Dad's and my faces.
Now, your favorite things to do are walk so fast that you almost run, swing on the swings, help with the vacuuming, and climb up the slide by yourself and go down face first, laughing.
You do a lot of things you're not supposed to do. You bother the cats while they're eating breakfast. You try to plug things into the wall. You bite to show your anger. And you do things that you're not supposed to be able to do, really. It looks like your imagination is already at work. You make your clothes hangers into combs and stroke your hair with them, and you hold my calculator to your ear to talk on the phone.
You can see the things you want to accomplish, and get so frustrated when the world doesn't go your way. I wish you had more words. You understand so much language already. It clearly makes you crazy that I can't understand you as well as you do me. Your meaningful gestures seem to have partially fallen away in favor of wild hand-waving and high-pitched fussing. You throw temper tantrums. Sometimes I wonder if you're actually two.
MaMay pointed out some "Big Boys" playing across the creek the other day, and you smiled and puffed up your chest, as though to say, "I'm a Big Boy, too." And you are. You're my fuss-budget smarty-pants wise owl Big Boy monkey.