He counts. Counts! (Uuuunn – Oooooo – Feeeee – Orrrrr – Iiiive – Icksssss – Evvvvvn – Eeeehhh – Innnnne – Ennnnnn) His pointer finger is always cocked to alert our attention to: Shoes. Car. Truck. House! Apple. Elephant. All done! Up! Santa. Ho! Ho! Ho! He sings, almost constantly (Inkle Inkle Ill Sarr). He answers questions (Yeeeeaah). He thinks farting is hilarious (we should probably stop laughing).
He is all colour and lightness and curiosity and joy. The rough edges of his recent frustrations soften with every word, with expression, with the satisfaction that comes from speaking his mind and being understood.
We had a great Christmas, full of innumerable cousins and great-great-aunts and grammies and grampies and heaps and mountains of train sets and twizzlers and sparklers and whizz-bangers. Did I ever say we wouldn’t get carried away? We did. It’s impossible not to, knowing now what he likes (and being addicted to the fascinated absorption that comes from obliging them).
In the midst of the Best Time Ever he seeks me out, bashes a trail through the christmas morning aftermath and clambers onto my lap. Looks into my eyes, grins, throws his arms around my neck as if to say: Mama, this is the Best Time Ever. I just had to tell you. Now I go. You watch me! And I do, so proud, so blessed.