Truman

He’s two and a half and these are the things I notice:

In a new situation, when addressed by a stranger, he tips his head down and shyly looks up, with a single finger in his mouth. He’s usually so open and unselfconscious, this shyness tells me there’s something about him that I don’t quite know of yet.
Kelli laid her hand kindly on his head once and then laughed. “I love how his head is always just kind of warm and sweaty.”
He’s forever finding something to throw, to swat with, to tumble upon. At nature group, while everyone was quietly sitting on the carpet of leaves, obediently sketching, he toddles to me, sets a green walnut in my lap, then backs up and goes into batting stance with a stick. He also loves to build with blocks in a way the girls never did at this age. I’m amazed and curious. Is it because he’s a boy? Because he’s just the way he is? Will he outgrow it? Must I encourage it? Do I even need to?
Speaking of, was there just something built into the psyche of a man that was unleashed upon the invention of the car? It’s so innate, so essential to the way a boy is. It’s hard to imagine that cars and fast things didn’t even exist for every man born before 1886.
Every time I walk in the door or even just re-enter the room, he stops whatever he’s doing, yells, “Papa!!!” and runs as fast as his bouncy, chubby legs will carry him right into my kneecaps. I never want to forget it.
On his profile, his upper lip sticks out so far—like a cartoon character. It has the effect of being unusually beautiful. But from the front, when he smiles those full lips stretch over his mouth and just two buck teeth stick out. He looks like the cutest, sweetest goober.
He’s drawn to men, especially his father and grandfathers. He seeks out, cries out for and delights in the men in his life. I’ve seen him bat away anyone trying to take him out of the arms of these men. It speaks to me about the way we could feel about our heavenly Father.
He’s been such a happy, contented kid. I’ll never forget when, days after he was born, I laid him down on the couch in order to go help the girls. He looked straight into my eyes and it was as if he said, “Mom, I’m good. You go do what you need to do.”
He loves meat. Chicken, turkey, beef sticks, bacon; all of it. Too bad we’re vegan.
At night or before bedtime, he points to all of the features of my face in order to hear me name them. Eye. Eyebrow. Eyebrow. Eye. Nose. Mouth. Tongue (he giggles). Ear. Ear. Hair. This ritual must not be skipped on any account. And then we pray and he clasps his chubby hands and squeezes his eyes shut and sometimes he even babbles away in his lispy voice until a big “amen” at the end.
He’s a snuggler of the best kind. I’ve vowed to myself that I’ll carry him as often as I can, put him in the Ergo whenever I can, because one day I’ll never pick him up again. I’m holding him, chest to chest, at every opportunity. This mundane, perfect experience feels like it's slipping away.
I’ve done a terrible thing. I took him to a salon and cut his hair. I got him black tshirts and jeans to match his dad. He wears black pumas. I’ve un-babyfied him.