Happy four-month birthday, Truman! I can't believe how old, old, old you're getting. You're so strong and sturdy that people rave about your muscular legs, your amazing ability to stand on my lap, weeble-wobbling from your torso but with rock-solid legs. The way you grab my arm or my hair to pull yourself in when you're hungry or needing a cuddle is both endearing and terrifying - because if you're this strong now, will I ever be able to get you in your car seat when you're two?
Sometimes I look in your eyes and, for the smallest bit of a second, think I can see the brain of a four-year-old peering back at me. Today you said "hi" to Father Stephen, as clear as day, when he greeted you enthusiastically. Patty and I looked at each other in shock, there was no doubt. No gurgles or coos or squealing, just "hi." Do you understand everything I'm saying? Can you read the books along with Everett and I? I can't help but believe that it's true.
You haven't been sleeping as much as usual for the past week, and today, you never slept more than 20 or 30 minutes at a time - and only two of those catnaps. You were happy and hungry, and spent a lot of time in my lap.
At one point around 9:30, I was tired from our day together and wishing I could put you down and peck away at my trusty laptop. And you started grinning at me, in your wide-open crooked-mouthed wild-fisted way, and weeble-wobbling, and grabbing my hair with glee. And I just wanted to cry with happiness, and hugged you, and giggled teary-eyed and got myself a cup of coffee. And we sat there, talking and laughing at each other, and I covered your wobbly happy sleepless head with kisses.
I know that some days I'll be angry with you, and that you and I will have power struggles just like your older brother. But I'll never stop having this feeling that tears the air out of my lungs and makes me cry from the pit of my stomach, this moony complex love. Four months, and already I can't remember life without you.
truman soulful in a bouncy pocket of sun