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

Sunday, July 03, 2011

Liam: July 2011

Little Yum Yum,

My favorite thing about you right now is the way you walk. It never fails to make me smile: shoulders back, round little belly out, right arm swinging twice as fast as the left. A little wiggle in your shoulders. You always look so joyful, strutting around like a peacock who's just found his plume.

As I was tucking you into bed a few days ago, you initiated a game of cover-your-eyes- peek-a-boo. You looked so cute, lying there in your crib, a big grin on your face, little chubby fingers covering your eyes, an occasionally sparkly peek from underneath, and then a cheery "I see you!" followed by a gale of hysterical giggling.

You've finally started saying "Mommy." It sounds more like "Aunnie!" or "Nonny!" with an occasionally "Ommy!" or "Mommy" thrown in for experimentation sake, but you call it out cheerfully and repeatedly when I come home, in chorus with your brother's "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" and together the harmony makes me feel very welcomed.

At the end of prayers, when everyone else is quietly murmuring, "Amen," as a "Mm-mm." you shout it out in two distinct syllables: "EH!" "EN!" In Sacrament Meeting everyone mumbles their little finish and you wait politely-- and then, from the shiny-faced redheaded baby in the back, it comes: "EH! EN!" It makes me think you were made to be some sort of more flamboyant type of Christian-- a Pentecostal or a Southern Baptist or something.

Your occupational therapist tells me that it's good for kids to learn animal sounds because it's a fun way to get them comfortable with the phonemes of their primary language. So when we read books with animals in them, I've been trying to make sure to emphasize the animal sounds. This means, of course, that you've learned the one animal sound that is not a phoneme in your primary language: a pig's snort/grunt. That's my boy.

In general, though, your language development has taken a great big leap as of late. You've become much more interested in words, in repeating things people say, and in describing things around you. Everywhere we go you're shouting out "car!" "car!" or "key!" key!" ("key" means any kind of animal). You say "all gone," describe things as being "cute," "nice," or "kikky" (yucky). You practice touching people "ostly" (softly). When you want something you'll ask by saying "More?" or "Augin?" ( again) or "Eease?" (please.)

A lot about you makes me think that you are an old soul, that you've been around a while and done a lot of things. I think that's part of why you're so relaxed-- you're not in a hurry to rush through things because you've done this before and know there's no need, that all things will come to pass in their own due time. It's not orthodox of me, but I do relish the thought of reincarnation, and I frequently find myself contemplating things you might have been in a past life. Some possibilities: a wizard (you seem to be performing complex incantations at times, complete with magical hand movements to help stir up the magic). a dog (you stopped one day to bark back at a dog yapping at us from behind a fence), or a charismatic dictator (you've been known to give lengthy, punctuated orations at top volumes in your own private language).

A month or so ago, we decided that you were plenty old enough to be getting read of your night time bottle, so we replaced it for several weeks with a sippy cup. And then one night at bedtime you were playing with trucks, so I put you to bed with a truck in each hand. And you haven't needed your sippy since. A truck in each hand, yes, but to heck with those babyish sippy cups.

You are a bold and an intrepid little explorer. Grandpa Hanson describes you as a lemming. He and Grandma took you to the park and they were both amused by how they'd put you down and off you'd go, in a straight, determined, unwavering path.

Tonight as I cleaned up the kitchen you sat on the counter by the radio and fiddled around until you found your favorite station. Then you grabbed a bottle of bubbles and, pointing the bubble wand at me and flashing a winning smile, asked, "Augin?" "Augin?" So I climbed up on the counter next to you and we sat together and blew bubbles. You made gleeful little noises at every one. With the evening's golden sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window and my little pink-cheeked baby boy laughing at bubbles, I felt deliriously happy. And so rich. Rich in adorable little boy product.

I love you so. So, so, so.



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