My sweet Baker is sixteen months old and is truly sweeter than ever.
I love, love this stage.
Each day is a new discovery.
A shadow. A texture. A food. A rhythm. An expression. A sign.
I love, love this stage.
I crave interactions with Baker.
He is so full of life and love.
His communication is so sweet,
so purposeful.
Reading books, singing songs, dancing across house, sharing ice cream.
These are the sweetest of days.
But sometimes, as difficult as it is,
I put him down.
I step away, and I watch him in fascination.
He does his thing, and I have a ticket to the greatest show on earth.
He manipulates the pages of our favorite stories,
emulating the gestures I do with precision along with each turn.
He sings along with familiar tunes that drift across his bedroom, or in the silence, he writes his own lyrics.
In perfect harmony, he sings.
He sits and stands and crawls.
Until he finally lays his head down on the scratchy floor to take a momentary rest.
Then he does it all again.
Back and forth he goes.
Me, watching in amazement as he wills his little body to follow his commands.
Like a little old man, who eats the same breakfast, in the same chair, at the same table, over the same newspaper day after day after day, Baker craves routines.
He eats cinnamon oatmeal and applesauce for breakfast, and then smells of fresh baked apple pie all day long.
He crawls familiar paths around the house, wearing the carpet as a dog does his trail in the backyard.
He sits in the driver's seat, fiercely turning the steering wheel this way and that before moving to his car seat.
He brushes his teeth and then mine, without fail every morning and night.
He leans in for a "tight squeeze," pat, pat, pats my shoulder, and coos after being separated all day.
No words, but so many words.
After bath, he crawls to the basket which houses his books and carefully removes all of his chosen ones for our nightly reads.
He first rocks with his back against my chest, then just before submitting to slumber, turns around and snuggles his head in the crook of my neck.
He sleeps in the same angelic position as the first night he was born.
He loves with a love so intense.
So real.
I spend my days slathering those I love in words of affirmation.
But Baker, with only a small vocabulary of spoken words,
communicates love with his whole being.
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Me: "Baker who do you love?"
Baker: signs Dada
And I, I melt.
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He is curious.
And energetic.
Spunky.
And loyal.
Stubborn.
And gracious.
Friendly.
And joyful.
My angel baby,
my real live baby doll,
my dream come true,
my Baker Bell
is sixteen months old
and he is sweeter than ever.
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