One year and half again more
Max is 18 months and three weeks old. He is fantastic.
His hair is still a curlfest, though the cold weather tames it to flat more often than I’d like. The spirals at the nape of his neck, though, are steadfast. I cannot bring myself to raise scissors to their glory.
I’m not sure if it’s the hours spent watching Noah on the field or a natural predisposition, but his companion of choice is always a ball, and it’s also the word that passes his lips more often than most. We even keep one in the car as a way to entice him into that transition, and every time he hears one of us say “Go,” or put on a jacket, or grab our keys, he drops what he’s doing and speed-toddles to the front door, saying “Car ball? Car ball?” In short, Max + ball = tru luv 4evah.
His second love (and it’s only second because of its later arrival to the favorites game) is books. “Bup? Bup? Bobo? Muhn? Go Dog Go?” He gives all his besties their own nicknames out of adoration. His sense of contentment fills a room when he’s legs out on the floor, flipping stiff pages with a fwap.
Of course, sometimes nothing else will do but to have his selection read aloud. He’s irresistibly persistent in his request for a lap. And we’re all suckers for it, every last one of us.
He plays his own Max-version of Marco Polo with me from distant rooms of the house, or from the back seat of the car. “Maaaaamaaaa,” he says. “Maaaaaxerrrrrr,” I answer back. And then we do it again or three more times. He’s not really looking for anything from me except for the sound of my voice. He’s happy enough just that I’m within the range of his baby boy ears.
Rosie used to say “Hole-joo?” when she wanted us to pick her toddler self up, and I always thought that was the best that request could get. But nope: when Max wants to nestle down in our arms up on high, he lifts his hands and says, “Hug?” Ten out of ten mes will choose lifting him to hip over all other choices in the present moment.
Also, he likes his dad.
I can’t get enough of him really. These delicious days are whizzing by like a ball kicked towards a goal. Like gust of wind, blowing through a head of straw-colored curls.