Our baby hoot owl is eleven months old. He’s nearly a year old.
C.P. is a bona fide chatterbox. I get the impression that we’re not far from a whole lot of talkin’. At the moment, with varying degrees of consistency, he says:
“Mawm” and “Dadd” and “Beebee”
“Peas” and “Tankoo”
“Hi” and “Bye-Bye”
“Ba”, “Ba”, and “Ba” (Ball, Book, and Bottle — though each does sound a bit different).
Bird’s not yet walking — but why would he when he crawls so darn fast? He’s mastered going up stairs, and fast — Jordan learned this the hard way when he left him in the living room to use the bathroom, only to discover that he’d gone upstairs to his room for a little peace and quiet.
He’ll pass a ball back and forth with you and hand you objects when you ask for them. He loves to play chase, and will take off crawling as fast as he can, convulsing in giggles when you tell him, “I’m gonna get you!”
He hates pants and loves vegetables. He adores the outdoors, refuses to stay still for diaper or clothing changes, waves hello and goodbye with not one hand but two, and is skillful at antagonizing his big cousin, Miley.
Your Daddd and I love you to the moon, Smalls. You’ve brought so much joy to our lives. You are what grounds me to each day and anchors me to to this world.