Abraham, Rachel, Soren and Liam. Our life together in Smalltown, Idaho.

Monday, February 02, 2009

Newsletter: 25 1/2 Months

Dear Soren,

Daddy applied for a job with the county this month. He didn't get it, but that's not important. What's important is that when you and I were waiting for him to fill out his application, you met someone very important.

We were standing just inside the double doors of the main entrance when up the stone steps of the courthouse strode a tall, confident man with shoulder-length blond hair and a well-groomed beard. I thought I recognized him as a reporter from the Idaho Falls Post Register, but you knew better. You took my hand and very softly and very reverently said, "Cici?" The man quickly reached the top of the steps and burst through the double doors. He was obviously in a hurry, but when he saw you he stopped briefly, looked down into your upturned face, and said in a deep voice, "Hello, little Dude." He then brushed past us and began removing his watch so he could pass through the metal detector.

I wonder if this is something you will remember in the future. "I met Jesus when I was very young," you'll say one day. "Maybe it was a dream. I don't know. But he called me a 'little Dude' and seemed like a pretty hip guy--wore a Rolex even-- so I've really been into Christianity ever since."
Soren has discovered the joy of bubble beards. He says it makes him look like a snowman. (At least, that's what I get out of him smearing bubbles on his chin and then saying, "Nonny! Nonny!") Neither Abe nor I showed him this. We're wonder if it's an instinctive thing, that all children are born knowing that bubbles are best as beards.

Also this month you appear to have developed an early-onset Oedipal Complex. You seem to feel that you and your daddy are engaged in a to-the-death competition for my love. Classic example: One Saturday morning Daddy and I were snuggling on the couch. You asked to join us (Your exact words were, "Up? Hug?"), so I hauled you up onto the sofa with us. First you cuddled up against me. Then, with your free hand, you bopped your dad in the face. So I placed you back on the floor with an admonition to be gentle. You came back in a minute and repeated your request: "Up? Hug?" So we decided to give you another chance. Again, you loved up to me and then pulled Daddy's hair. You were again placed on the floor, again reminded to touch nicely. When you came back a third time, you laid down on my enormous round belly and, more cautiously now, slowly began torturing your dad: an "accidental" whack on the chest with your enormous cranium; a "gentle" hair-rubbing session turned rough, a position change that involved grabbing Daddy's neck skin and pulling hard. Needless to say, you weren't allowed back on the couch for the duration of the morning, a blow you took to be hard. But I promise you, son: one day you won't want to marry me and you'll be very glad that your dad is alive. Oh, and also, you'll realize that there's no limit to the amount of love someone can give.

Soren practices going to the potty. No actual peepee or poopoo were involved in the making of this photo.

For Christmas we gave you a single container of Playdough. It was blue. And you loved it. You carried it around the house. You slept with it. You brought it to Grandma's. You took it to Auntie Collette's. You screamed when it got taken away. You sat at the table for hours and shaped it into snakes (you call them "neeks.") You followed me around and requested that I make you playdough balls. It was a sad day when we realized the blue playdough was completely dessicated. So when Nana (your Great Grandma Forbes) mailed you some birthday money, we knew just what to do with it: we bought you some more. FOUR containers this time, all of which have since dried up and been thrown away. We replaced all of that, too, but your interest seems to have waned, at least temporarily. But anyway, you spent the bulk of this month in the kitchen with your playdough. Perhaps you'll grow up to be a sculptor?

You've started developing a mild attachment to things that are comfortable to you. You have a few favorite stuffed animals (Monkey, Bear, and Bunny). You have a favorite blanket (called "BobBob"-- it's a Spongebob print). You have a favorite lullaby: "Horses" (All the Pretty Little Horses.) When you're tired or in pain, you'll request these items: "Bear!" "Bob!" "Horses!"

And you say the following words adorably:

Fork = "Hort"
Dinosaur = "Naur"
Monkey = "Muneet"
Button (as in the garage door button) = "Muneet"

So these are my thoughts and memories of you this month.

Your daddy and I love and love you. We're so glad you're ours.




Heidi said...

Soren knows SO many words! And looks so big! I can't explain how, but he looks so much older, more manly, than the last pix of him! :(

Collette's kids are getting older too. Why?
Why must this be?

Love, Heidi

Rachel said...

I feel that people should not age in my absence, yet they continue to do so. Who knows why?

Rachel said...

Also, Soren does not sound big right now as he sits in his crib squealing like a pig in protestation of his impending nap.

collette said...

Rach, I loved everything about this post!!! Especially the CiCi story.

Also, I feel proud because I, I had a hand in making the BobBob blanket.

collette said...
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