Hootwo, you're ... almost twenty months. Almost two. Wild. The last time I wrote, you were ten WEEKS. Your hair has evolved from ginger, to an envious platinum. You say words. You make signs. You're the master at mimicking animal noises.
At best, you're both hilarious. Dad and I have a large vase propped on the mantle, where we write on cards memorable moments or phrases you each create. We'll review them on Christmas as presents to ourselves. At best, you're both creative. Hootoo -- your imagination is out of control. It's great to watch. You both adore the Avengers, even though the sole exposure comes from stories in Golden Books. I think that Hootoo can cite the collection off by heart. At best, you're both so loving. Always remembering two things before you leave one of us, or before you sleep at night. You both love to snuggle close, at meals, while reading, whenever we're sitting. You love Amma, Afi, Uncle Gucky, Aunt Ashleigh and Gram. You love your dogs, and Bew Bew kitty. "I'm good with kitties, Mama."
At worst, you're beasts to be tamed. Your minds are growing, as little people you are learning and exploring. Three is a challenging age for you, Hootoo, because you want to be an independent superhero -- not realizing that you're just a little boy. You abhor getting your hair brushed, or combed, or cut. It's out there, freestylin', and that's okay. Mama always has to collect you from your carseat when you come home from school. That's okay, too. You're learning what words are kind, and which ones can only be said in the bathroom. You can melt at the sight of a broken bar, if your brother glances at the toy in your hands, etc. (See: asshole parents). Hootwo is fiery, too. But only when tired. That's okay. It's genetic. Mama is a terror when she's pooped out.
Mama is also tired because she's growing your sibling. You don't know it yet, although I'm not sure why we haven't yet told you. Hoothree will be here in the Spring of 2016. Then, a blog post will show up once in a decade.
Mama
