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One hand down your shirt. He won't fall asleep any other way.

He strips all clothes off except for his shirt the moment he’s home. He builds cars, trains, and “towahs” with his Legos. He tries to snap his fingers and calls for Simone by clucking his tongue and calling her “Monie”. The crazy thing is she responds and comes to him.

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He feeds himself. He goes to the table, pulls out a chair, climbs up and feeds himself. How is it possible that this being was in utero twenty one months ago?

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This same little man that responds with “peaze” when he wants something now. Follows his “sista!” and holds his hand out for her to bring him along while prancing on excited stalking tip-toes behind her.

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The wild monkey boy that climbs baby gates, scales furniture and jumps, bounces on his knees across the room, and shouts “voom!” when he sees a vehicle pass by that he approves of, and greets people with a wave as he says “hi” and remembers to wave and say “goodbye”. The same boy that silently scrambles into our laps for shelter when music sounds scary (not a fan of Danny Elfman or John Williams scores, the dork force is not in this one), the one that finishes dancing to Royal Blood and wants a hug, who asks for “Bob” during our family cuddle time after dinner.

The same boy who climbs into his bed and crashes head first, kicking and thrashing the covers and anyone near him, demanding a “bah-bah” and laughing, pinching and scratching at you like you’re drowning a wild animal instead of soothing a toddler, until he magically becomes a sleeping cherub hugging his giraffe.

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Happy twenty-one months, Bubba. You might wear the same size socks as Nora but we know you’re our “little” baby even when you head bang off the couch and laugh like Seth Rogen.

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