Remember these things: Dear Will, your vocabulary is sweet. So are you.

Dear Will,

Last time I wrote you a letter, I was thinking about you turning one. My, how time flies. Since then, you turned the big 1 and are rounding the corner to 25, so it feels to your mama. You're still happy, loud, curious, and funny, and I've got a few more things I'll add to that list.

You're very vocal, just not in English yet. The English words you do know are three: Uh oh, cookie, and Graham Cracker. Way to go, son. Graham cracker's a hard one. Your word choices reveal a lot about me. I may be the only one who understands you, but when you ask for a cookie, I cannot resist. It's cute, and I want one, too. Let's keep adding more, okay? Choc-o-late. Choc-o-late. Chocolate.

In year two, milestones are measured by the number of your naps and the orientation of your car seat. We're down to one nap, which you and I seem to like a whole lot better than trying to get your spirited little self to sleep when the rest of the world isn't... twice in a day. That just never worked well. Your car seat still faces backwards, which is so boring, but it's bigger and roomier now, and you can feed yourself goldfish from your cup holder, which again is a score for both of us.

Spatulas are still your favorite things on earth, and I can't do one productive thing in the kitchen without you wanting to see it. I don't get much cooking done, and the kitchen is often a mess because of it, but the feel of your little hands on my legs to be picked up is worth both of those losses to me.

You love being outside, which has kind of made me despise the winter months around here on your behalf. I didn't think you minded the cold one bit until we took you to the property in 30-something degree weather one day last week. About fifteen minutes in, you cried in pain, holding up both hands and shaking both feet. I was ready to go at the five-minute mark, so I'm proud of you for making it to fifteen. Nobody said you had to like the cold. We've been passing the cold morning hours these days at the indoor playgrounds in the mall and Chick-fil-a. I can certainly think of worse.

You're a very good eater; we just struggle with vegetables sometimes. Again, that probably says something about me, not you, so don't worry about it. We're working on it. Butter and garlic salt can make even broccoli taste like a potato chip. (You know this at 16 months. Just call me mother of the year -- again.)

The nursery workers still use the word busy to describe you (with a happy but tired sigh) when we pick you up from Lambs on Tuesdays and from church service on Sundays. I interpret your busyness to mean you're going to be brilliant later. I really mean that. But no pressure. I love you regardless of your brains. I just love you. Regardless.

You still laugh spontaneously, and that is a gift I wish more of us had. You laugh, I laugh, you laugh -- the only difference from 11 months is that now your gummy smile has cute little pearly whites across the front. I grit my teeth at the cuteness every time: My snookie, my chicken, my darlin'.

Daddy and I pray with you before meals and before bed and sometimes in the car just because we need to. We thank the Lord for your warm bed, and your good food, and your great friends, and even better than those things, we thank the Lord for Jesus. Daddy and I pray that you will cherish Him above all as soon as your little heart can. "'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus" isn't just our song, it's your mom and dad's testimony, and we pray it's yours one day, too.

We love you, and we love you, and we love you. You bring us such joy. Keep carrying on, little chicken!

Love,
Mom

Have a look at yourself, almost 16 months old:

At the playground in the mall

1 going on 25. Wouldn't even look at the camera.

And a close-up of the shoes in case you couldn't see
them well enough in the previous picture. Have you ever
seen such?
We have your buddy Easton Little to thank for these kicks.