Newsletter #2

Dear Soren,

Today you are 16 months and 3 days old. All month long I've been saving up things to tell you about yourself, but now that I'm actually sitting at the keyboard, my mind's gone blank. Let's see....
Yesterday your father and I spent some time cuddling on the couch, leaving you to your own devices for a minute or two. While we gaggaged and googooed at each other, you sat leaning against the half-wall in our front room, quietly playing with your stacking cups. Too quietly, we commented to each other, but you didn't appear to be doing anything naughty, so we carried on.

A UOS (unidentifiable odoriferous scent) drifting across the room soon motivated a change in plans, however, and I arose to check your diaper. I didn't even have to peek into the thing, as I could see from some yards that a thick brown paste was oozing out of the back of your pants. I called for backup, and your dad, holding you at arm's length, whisked you off to the bathtub. At the same moment that I noticed that there was fecal matter smeared all over the wall, your dad removed your shirt and discovered that thick tendrils of poop, like so much ivy, had climbed all the way up your back and into your hair. We hosed you off in the shower despite your many and loud verbal protestations. When we reported this event over Sunday dinner this afternoon, your Uncle Marty commented that all new parents should be issued a pressure washer.
This month you've developed a few new communication skills, namely saying "brrroombrooom" whenever you see anything with wheels; shaking your head vigorously whenever you perform a no-no; and waving "bye-bye" whenever it appears someone is about to take their leave. Your head shake and your wave are painstakingly and endearingly deliberate: you very consciously turn your head from side to side and twist your wrist back and forth like a beauty queen.

This month your Uncle Scott graduated from BYU's business school with a Master's degree in Information Systems. We drove down to celebrate with him. After the actual ceremony, we attended a dinner at Auntie Mandy's parents' house. Calysta was loitering because she wasn't hungry, so I asked her to keep an eye on you while I ate and visited with the other grownups. When I later peeked into the front room to see how you were doing, I found that you had made friends with the local Episcopalian pastor's husband, a small quiet man with a mustache, and that he was blithely sharing his baked beans with you. You'd take a bite, run around the room for a minute, and then run back to him to beg for more, puppy-style. He seemed to think you were cute and not at all germy, so I immediately decided he was the most charming man alive.
You're usually just that free and easy-going when it comes to meeting new people. There are some exceptions, however. That same day I took you to the BYU Bookstore to meet some of my old friends there. Valerie, a darling woman who works in the HR department, came out to hug the two of us. You, however, did not approve of her warm greeting, and slowly removed her right hand from my shoulder, then her left hand from yours, handing them back as if to say, "Did you lose these? Because I'm pretty sure they don't belong to us."

After the graduation party, we drove (with your Grandma and Grandpa Hanson) further into Utah, to a little town called Huntington, to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Hanson, who had never before met you. It was night when we started up Spanish Fork Canyon, and you were exhausted after a very long, very busy, nearly napless day. You finally fell asleep in your carseat as we wound our way through the canyon, but lights falling from lamp posts and little towns would occasionally flash hard through the windows; you would awaken and begin wriggling around and crying in discomfort. I held your little hand and sang you songs until you fell back to sleep, watching your sleeping baby face in the sliding shadows and wondering how to describe in words the sensation of having one's heart squeezed in the grasp of a 15-month-old baby boy.
We slept in the attic room at great Grandma and Grandpa Hanson's house for two nights and they found you delightful. Grandpa observed your antics with a twinkle in his eye, and Grandma, who can't see much anymore, commented several times on what a "choice spirit" you are, though her fondness (and blindness) did not prevent her from yelling at you for driving a toy tractor on her piano keyboard. On Saturday the two of them-- amid their usual barrage of bickering--made us some authentic Mexican Tamales, wrapped in corn husks and everything. This tamale making is a skill they picked up a few months ago, at the ages of 89 and 90, at a workshop they attended in Price. I hope that they will live long enough for you to have some memories of them. They are good people.
Love,

Mommy