xtcian

sugardaddo

11/1/06

My darling sweetie-pants li'l Lucybug-

This is another letter for you, because guess what? You turned 18 months old while we were in Scotland, a whole year and a half! I've written to you every three months since you were born, and will keep doing it until it bugs the crap out of you, because it's important to give the sense of an era while it's happening.

What is truly hard to fathom is that you will remember absolutely none of what has come before. You may have a feeling, or the faintest flavor of this year, but it will remain a dream, something you can't put your finger on. I have the same reaction to the late '60s - the apartment we had in San Jose, and some of the music that was on the radio.

My very first actual memory was at eighteen months old: my dad and mom standing over me, with my dad's hairy chest and the crossbeams in the ceiling. It's a memory that could only have happened at a specific time, so it's easy to date. Sometimes I look at you, as you have a faraway look, and wonder: is this that singular moment for you? It will be something tiny, like a dropped apple, or your mother emerging from her bedroom with a smile. For no reason, that will be your first permanent inkling, and it will haunt you like a lovely song.

As for your accomplishments, they are storied, sure. You counted to ten last month (after a week getting stuck on "eight") and now threaten twelve. You spelled out the entire alphabet last week - you know, casually, like it had always been there. You also identified the alphabet song as the same tune as "Twinkle Twinkle," something I didn't realize until college.

Of course, I've tried to get you to say the alphabet on camera all week, which has led to thousands of gigabytes dedicated to making me look like a total jackass. I'm now convinced that I'll get you to do it, but by then you'll be sixteen years old and it won't seem quite as impressive.

You do spell your own name, however, half of which I did manage to get on camera:

Your circle of friends has widened immeasurably - not only do you have a pretty constant understanding of Uncles Sean and Steve, but also David, Mark and Rick. You remember your English mates Annie, Molly and Charlie, and can name your grandparents by picture. What I really like about your social nature is your self-curation: you speak Spanish to the babysitters from Mexico and your mom, but you don't speak Spanish to me, because you know I'll have no frickin' clue what you're saying.

Your have a special affection for pictures of Hank, and old pics of Jack and Polly, but you think your California friends Finley and Noah are too goddamn funny for words:

When we travel out into the world, I'm getting used to you not being the youngest anymore. These days there is almost always a little piker smaller than you, which fascinates you endlessly - especially the burning question of whether or not their diaper has been changed (you also like putting diapers on your Homer Simpson doll, and occasionally the Los Angeles Dodger Monkey). You used to be the mewling infant, like here with Georgia last year:

And now you're the wizened toddler, showing babies like Esme the ropes last month:

Around the house, you've become something of a benevolent tyrant, quite picky about the way things ought to be, but not apoplectic when we tell you you're being crazy. You still have an obsession with shoes, you like your objects to be in nice rows, and you occasionally obsess about bizarre minutiae. Tonight, as you drifted off to sleep, you suddenly bolted upright on my shoulder and demanded that your stuffed alligator wear socks.

It's truly odd to hear your opinions. I mean, where did you get them? I certainly don't remember giving you any, and neither does your mother.

But mostly you're such a beacon of light, my little Luz, carrying bucketfuls of affirmation to anyone who lets you climb up them. You wave to strangers. You let - nay, demand - anyone in the house hold you and read you books. You never met someone that didn't interest you in one way or another. You expect a lot out of the world, and it rarely disappoints.

Your mom and I look forward to seeing you each morning, and talking to you all day; you are slowly developing into a fabulous companion. Your sentences are choppy, but always contain the right number of syllables, like a well-known lyric just out of reach. I can't wait until you put it all together so we can chat, and you can truly understand what it means when I say I love you.

Posted by Ian Williams at November 1, 2006 11:47 PM