Today, 17 months old. And you're home with a fever and molars busting through your gums. Much like your mama, when you're sick, you're a great big baby. Crying, waving your arms around, and making little whining noises even when everything's ok. You also sleep a lot when you don't feel good, another one for team Mom.
In the last month, you've expanded your vocabulary to words such as "Oh dear", "shit", "more", "thanks", "shoe", and Daddy's favorite "da-da-da". I even coaxed "papa" out of you but I had to request it in Spanish.
You actually play with stuff. You balance one toy on top of another. Or you drape our laundry on top of your music table . . . or Cook. Then you hysterically laugh. You also climb on top of the ottomans (which makes me so nervous) and then applaud your own efforts.
I forgot about one other word: ball. But you don't say it just once. You repeat it over and over as you trespass into Mario & Maggie's yard to play with their basketball hoop. And even though I rushed out and bought you the exact same hoop and ball-ball-ball-ball, you'd rather have theirs. Welcome to the grass-is-greener, buddy.
Happy 17 months, buddy. We love you. Hope those teeth give you (and us) a break soon.
Mom and Dad