The boy is revving toward 17 months old, and I find myself consistently on the edge of shock with regard to what he does. Over the past week, he has made a show of the fact that unprotected doorknobs are under his absolute control. Granted, this is the same kid who in short order outsmarted the cabinet latches that I once spent hours installing.A new fondness of his is jumping. Jumping from the floor to, well, the floor. Jumping from the arm of the couch to the cushions. Jumping from the ottoman to the couch. Jumping from the chair into my arms. It's like my own personal time machine, vicariously recalling memories of defying gravity. I'm proud of him for experiencing it himself, and having a blast doing so.
He sings. He dances. Surprisingly well (Credit: The Wife).
His vocabulary is undoubtedly better than mine already. Seriously, the rate at which he's learning words and definitions is astounding. What started with animal sounds has progressed to declarations of everyday objects, feelings, and acknowledgements. We had never made a point of talking about pancake syrup with him, but during Valentine's Day breakfast, he pointed at the syrup bottle and just said "mirrup." If he starts saying "muck" or "mit," I singlehandedly deserve the blame for letting a few choice words fly when I shouldn't have.
On the other hand, with the way he's teething right now, he has every right to say "muck."
