Dear Jasper,
18 months tomorrow. A year and then half a year. You are my last baby to be quantified in monthly terms. 6 months, 9 months, 14.5 months- obnoxious terminology for the parents who just cannot bear the idea of rounding up. “Almost 1.” “Almost 2.” “Almost leaving for college across the country to study ornithology which, really, is just a fancy name for birdwatching and can’t you do that here at home, Jasper?!”
Stuff like that.
And I’m cool with it, I swear to you that I am, J.J. Because Boy You is even more fun that Baby You- and I devoured the heck out of Baby You. Little tiny Jasper was a snuggly little dude with eagle eyes and a braced position against my shoulder to see/protect yourself from the [incredible, visually stunning] antics of your big sisters. Big, stretched-out Jasper is king of the mountain. Sometimes he is the mountain.
Roo, you’re a sticky, fearless ball of headfirst hilarity. You’re occasionally a clown, you’re sometimes a pest, and you give the best mmm windups to kisses that anyone’s ever been lucky enough to receive (and then surreptitiously dry on the back of a shirt). Even after the scrubbiest bath, you still carry the faintest trace of what we’ll go ahead and call “dirt.” You’ve got your biggest sister’s knack for hiding in tiny places and your middle sister’s affinity for carrying on a joke way too long- and I’ve got the makings of the rest of the grey hairs I’ve yet to grow.
Poor little third can’t even get his own featured photo.
But you still rest your head against my shoulder before naps. In fact, the word for what you do is thunk. When you decide it’s nap time (and since you’re oh-so like me on the sleep front it always has the potential to be nap time), you place your pacifier (I know, I know) firmly in your mouth, put your Taffy and Laffy (I know, I know) giraffes against your neck, and thunk the side of your face firmly against the crook of my neck and shoulder. You sigh deeply, like- “God, what a morning, amiright?” I sing to you- the same songs I’ve sung to you since they unstrapped my post-C-section arms and hooked up my post-C-section morphine drip…and you still smile quietly in that same post-Glad that’s over way.
I tell you I love you- and I whisper your full name every single time so you’ll be completely sure I’m talking to you and only you, Mr. Jasper Callahan- and I tell you to have a good little sleep.
You nod at me. You always do. You wave goodbye and smack your lips in a bored “air kiss” kinda way. And then I’m politely dismissed.
But it’s okay, pal. Because we both know that I’m your favorite gal and you’re my favorite boy and, as long as we let other people pretend they’re somewhere in our Best Friend Club as well, I can handle being told to get lost. I’m sure this will come in handy when you’re off being a Boy Child (embarrassed by PDAs in the school drop-off lane) or a Man Person (wondering why his mother hates far-flung ornithology quite so much).
You’ll still have that barely contained mirthful smile.
I’ll still have that barely contained knowledge of your virtuosity.
And you will always- always– be my little guy. Even when your dirt smells less charming than it does now. Especially when I’m no longer the first line of defense for the hurts and heartaches which I abhor- but which are also wholly necessary for you to become the really realized functional member of society I can’t wait to meet.
(But maybe I can wait a little longer.)
I love you, Jasper. Happy year and a half.
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