Emmett, I apologize. I’m sorry that the posts here haven’t been filled with the flowery paeans we lavished on your big sis when she was little. If it’s any consolation, the time we would’ve used to write those posts has been spent getting to know you (also, there haven’t been any recent posts about Ava, either; everybody hurts).
Mainly, Emmett, you’re funny. Although people see your big sister in you all the time, it’s difficult for your mom and me to find her personality in you (these days, that’s a good thing). You’re physically adventurous in ways Ava never was. Cupboards are meant to be opened, and chairs are meant to be climbed. Last evening, I watched you scale your highchair in the dining room and reach over to the table — your whole body completely stretched out — to grab some markers. You’re physically confident, and when you get a bump, you walk around for a bit, giving the spot a good rub, as if to say, “WTF was that?”
You love it when I hold you upside down and swing you by your legs. Almost as much as your mom hates it. You put up with a lot of abuse from a jealous older sibling. And you love it when someone chases you. Anywhere. If you see someone lying on the floor, you’re the first to come pile on, a huge smile spread across your face. Whenever you see a dog, you close your lips real tight and make an “MMM! MMM!” noise that we assume is your version of “Woof! Woof!”
You love to grab board books from the shelf in your closet and bring them to me to read. If I sit cross-legged on the floor, you’ll turn your back to me and back up until you plop into my lap, ready to read. Even though you’ve learned “all done” in ASL, your favorite way to signal you’re through with a meal is to toss the remaining contents of your tray onto the floor. Including your drink.
You’re very, very close to talking. Each day seems to bring a new word to your vocabulary, even though it often takes your mom or me (or G.G.) to do the translation. I’m going to miss this wordless stage of your development, Emmett. There’s poetry in our conversations now, sometimes even a lyrical quality to the long strings of babble you put forth. There’s room for infinite expression in your little grunts and “mehs” and “tuhs” and “gahs.” Sometime soon I’ll know exactly what you want by listening to the words you say. And that’s overrated.
Emmett, I don’t live every day with an appreciation of how long we waited and hoped for you. But I should. People have waited longer and hoped more deeply for the arrival of a child, I’m sure, but no one has loved anyone more profoundly than we love you.