To Jay Paul On His First Birthday

Dear Jay Paul

Everybody told me that little boys were different, but your sister (Dapples) was so tom-boy-like I was sure that I had already experienced the rough and tumble life a boy would bring.  Oh how wrong I was!  It’s not enough for you to look at life, or touch it, or taste it…you want to SMASH it.  Everything you pick up, you slam back down, and if you can’t pick it up (say my face, for instance) you smack it or smush it until someone makes you stop.  The most delicate handling we’ve seen occurs with your pointer finger.  You love to point with that single outstretched digit and cry, “This! This!” until someone names it for you.  Then, once satisfied that you’ve heard the object’s name, you go in for the fingernail swipe, as though you plan to hook whatever it is, there on your fingertip.  So what, if it happens to be your sister’s eyeball!

You pull hair mercilessly.  The only place you are truly happy is on my hip, and if I happen to need both of my arms for a minute or two, then you pull up on my legs, look up to me with utmost pleading and whimper and cry until I sweep you back up.  You hate schedules.  Deny them positively.  Just as soon as I think I have one down, you decide to change your mind.  And this has always been your attitude towards sleeping through the night.  You may have slept your first 8-hour stretch at 6 weeks, but that didn’t mean you wanted to do such a thing EVERY night.  Sometimes you’ll sleep all night long for a month in a row, but then for three weeks in a row you wake up once or twice, just like you want to be sure we still know you’re there.  Your Daddy has started referring to you as our one-year-old newborn.

Despite all these things, none of us can resist you.  You are unquestionably the current darling of the family.  Mary Aplin takes your hair pulling with a smile.  Pace actually requests that you try to bite her.  Daddy calls you “My Boy” and says “Give me a keeesss” (kiss) in a stickily sweet voice that I never imagined he could create.  And as for me…well…I think I am the most hopeless of all.  I adore every last little ounce of you, even though I miss my second arm and wish you wanted to play independently for longer than 3 minutes at a time eeeevery once in a while, I wouldn’t trade my time being your (sorry to the rest of the family) uncontested favorite for one second.  You are my boy.

I’ve loved the quiet times, feeding you in the dark.  I’ve loved the exciting times, watching you discover new things and delight in the smallest joys.  I’ve loved watching you shine as soon as your sisters come into view.  I’ve loved seeing the way your Daddy cherishes you.  I even love the passion that makes you smash and overturn everything in your path, because it gives me a glimpse of the strong man I know you will be one day.  It helps me to cherish these long days with you on my hip, because I know they are short.

Your smile is like a little white pony tied with a big red bow on Christmas morning.  Your laugh is like the tinkle of raindrops on a tin roof.  Your squeal is like breathless joy.

Your first words started at around 9 months.  It’s always hard for me to know when babies REALLY know what they’re saying, but we think your first word was “Dada”, followed closely by Sis (for sister), Lala and Lili (the two favorite dogs in your life), and Mama.  You love to tell us “Night, night” and “Bye Bye”.  You look forward to your morning and night “Baba” (bottle).  And at Thanksgiving you loved to bat at anyone’s hand who approached you (on my hip) and say “Na, Na!” (translation “No! No! don’t you take me away from my Mama.”)  Papa is a solid word in your repertoire, and there are a few others that your mother is still not solid in translating.

You are a gift.  You are so stinkin’ hard.  You like to wrestle and give big open-mouth kisses that frighten and delight us both.  You are all rough boy and a squeezable cuddle-bug.  You charge at life.

Happy Birthday Babybus, and Happy New Year too.

{Yes, this letter is 3 days late.  His birthday was New Year’s Eve}