10.14.09 :: 2:21 pm

sweet, sweet heartkiller...

Dear Oliver,

A few days ago you turned 15 months old. I know, I'm lagging on these letters but so much crap has gone down recently that I can't even think about sitting down to resize a photo or think of a 15th way to tell you how crazy I love you.

We went to Greece, and it nearly killed us all.
You turned 13 and 14 months while on that vacation. You managed to not sleep on two (count 'em) two trans-Atlantic 9+ hour flights.
You swam in the sea, ate homecooked Greek food every day, grew two inches, became more communicative without words (how is that possible?), ran barefoot all day, played with turtles, and was the star of the show.

And we were exhausted.

We came home a week early, having aged approximately ten years, and later that month you came down with your first real illness.
I thought your brains would boil for certain.

But you obviously recovered and then went on to learn new tricks and skills like climbing onto the rocking chair by yourself, pointing to members of the family when asked where they were by name, and busting out with a new repertoire of babbling.

You got a haircut and as the patient lady dusted off your collar, you transformed before my eyes into a five year old.

I'm going to keep it short because I'm writing this completely on the fly and I don't have any pictures to add but let me tell you, Tater.
You are a wonder.

You're full of amazing dichotomies. The well-behaved spaz. The empathetic loner.

You have a sense of humor and know when to use it.

I can't wait till you're old enough to understand the specific brand of happiness you've reflexively given me.

You are mine forever.

"I'll eat you up, I love you so."


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