This month you discovered the power of laughter. The other day, you solemnly stroked your own face with a makeup sponge, and when your father and I burst out laughing, you look at us in surprise. Then you broke into a grin and did it again, to see if you could elicit the reaction twice.
I discovered the power of laughter, too. That is, the manic laughter that possesses you directly before a complete and total meltdown. Good indicator, that.
You continue to grow and grow. The daycare worker at the Y says you look like a 2 year old. You're tall enough to climb onto chairs, reach doorknobs, and also, unfortunately, the stove. (There have been no mishaps so far, but telling you "hot", even though I'm pretty sure you understand it, seems to make you want to touch it MORE).
You understand that there is someone on the other end of a phone, because you will say "hiiiiiii" when prompted, but then wave goodbye when it's time to hang up. You babble, constantly, at least until it's time to speak to your grandparents on the webcam. Then you clam up and wander off to play by yourself. Otherwise you chat from morning to night, sometimes to yourself, sometimes to us, sometimes lecturing the dog in a firm tone while wagging your finger.
Ahem. I have no idea where you might have picked THAT up.
Mostly what you say isn't words, yet, but they're starting to come together. I'm trying to remember to enjoy this aimless babbling before it becomes endless demanding, but I can't help but jump on every vocalization that sounds like it might be a word.
"Fish! Did you hear that? He said 'fish'!"
"Okay," says your father, and goes back to his own enjoyment of your stream of vowels.
You're starting to have quiet periods, instead of goinggoinggoing constantly, where you watch tv or color or just contemplatively put things into a container and then take them out again. This gives me hope that you're not going to be a manic child, only a high-energy one, who can easily be worn out with exercise. It finally - finally! - warmed up a little this week so your grandmother took you to the park and set you loose. She said you probably walked half a kilometre, all by your gleeful self. And then you dozed off in the stroller on the way home.
When you're not sick, or teething, or hungry or tired, and all the stars are aligned, you're the most delightful and endearing child ever to grace the planet.
There's gotta be some kind of shot I can give you to keep it that way.