ONEderful you

Oh, Andrew. There you are driving your little tow truck on the window, your first birthday balloons still floating above your head. I am there behind you, desperately trying to capture the sweet little moments of your life in photographs. You are so darned curious. Every time you see the camera, you want to touch it, inspect it, push the buttons and smudge your little fingerprints on the lens. Every once in a while, I manage to sneak up on you and get a picture that forever freezes a moment in time -- like here, when the light from the window fell on your pudgy dimpled hand as you motored that little blue truck along the back of your chair and up and down the window screen.
Your wheels are always turning. You are so incredibly smart. I am sure I'm quite biased. All mothers probably feel this way. Still, you always surprise me with your ability to reason, to imitate, to communicate. You are changing so fast and I am constantly trying to come to terms with the new you. Technically, you aren't a baby anymore, though it is hard for me to think of you as anything else.
At one, you are inquisitive to a point of hilarity. When Aunt Carol isn't wearing earrings, you peek into her ears to see where they are hiding. You  have stuck your fingers up my nose, in my mouth and in my ears as you explore.
You are talkative, you jabber of course, but you also talk -- you say sentences like "I love you, Da," when video chatting with your Dad and "I get that hello" when you reach for my cell phone. You answer questions with a resounding "Yes" or "No." Like this morning when your grandma asked you if you talked with your dad last night and you shook your head and said "No." You call me by name when you are angry or inpatient. Not "mommy" or "mama" as I have always taught you, but "Krista." I honestly don't know whether to laugh or cry when you do this. You say words like "tractor" and "cookie" one day and go back to your old standards "Papa, Mama, hello and ball" the next.
You are friendly. When we go shopping, you say "hey" to everyone we pass. Sometimes, the strangers smile and speak. Sometimes they ignore you. You do not like it when they do that.
You giggle when things bring you pleasure. Like when Papa gives you a taste of oatmeal creme pie, or I come home from a long shopping trip, or when Brody licks your fingers or when you see your dad's face on the computer screen.
You are a clown. You delight in making us laugh. If you discover that sticking out your tongue makes everyone giggle you do it repeatedly.
You are a monkey. You climb on EVERYTHING! You love to sit on the coffee table or climb into the toy box. You love to climb onto the window seat at Granny's and fling open the shutters to look outside and call for Dixie.
You are fearless. You will put your face in your bath water, reach out and grab tree branches while riding in your wagon or attempt to fling yourself out of my arms if you don't like being held or I'm impeding you from doing what you want to do.
You are bossy. You want so badly to be independent especially when it comes to feeding yourself. You love to eat. Just this week, you tried my homemade guacamole and you loved it! I adore you for that.
You can't walk yet. Well, I think you could walk but you just haven't got it all figured out yet. Of course, the fact that you don't walk doesn't stop you. You are everywhere at once and you crawl so fast you can disappear in seconds. This morning after snuggling with you in my bed as you drank your morning bottle (the only bottle left), I put you on the floor and I stretched before getting out of bed. A few seconds later, when I sat up and put my feet on the floor you were gone. I called your name and looked down the hall. Nothing. All of a sudden, your little head popped up over the other side of the bed. I called you baby Houdini.
I took you to see the pediatrician for your one-year check up. She confirmed what I have always known. You are "perfect." You weigh 27.7 pounds and are 32 inches long! You are a big healthy boy and are bigger than 99 percent of babies your age. In fact, after you got your shots, we went back to the waiting room to find your Grandma chatting with a mother who had a small baby on her lap. "How old is he?" I asked, expecting her to say he was nine months. But he was the same age as you, just a few days between your birthdays. It looked like you ate that kid for breakfast.
You are one and you are different than you were a few weeks ago. You've started showing signs that the "terrible twos" are just around the next corner. You make a horrible high pitched squealing sound when you don't get your way. You will arch your back and throw your arms back and that makes it almost impossible for me to hold on to you.
You are everything I hoped you would be but you are so much more than I could have ever imagined. Your laugh is the sweetest sound I've ever heard. Your cheek is the softest thing I've ever kissed. Your scent is the sweetest I've ever smelled. You are the sun and moon and stars. You are puffy clouds and sunshine and cool water and warm socks and all the good things in the world all wrapped up in one little human.
Sometimes, I look at you and the very fact that you exist in this real world nearly knocks me down. Here you are -- a dream that became a reality. You grew in me. I gave birth to you. And, I have fed and bathed and clothed you each day. I have held you and rocked you and caressed you and kissed you. And it has been the greatest honor of my life.