t h e . r i d i c u l o u s . p a n d a

oh, my sweet baby boy.

fifteen months. twenty two pounds and fifteen ounces. nine and a half teeth.

give you a couple of empty spice jars, a handful of cinnamon sticks, two super balls, a cup full of water, a pile of apple rings, a tissue and a book about an ol' black fly and we swear you could entertain yourself for the entire afternoon.

your main mission while at home this month has been a slight jog from room to room. you'll be happily playing with a bowl of rocks and your bear and turtle figures when all of a sudden you'll drop them and hightail it into the bathroom where you'll spend ten minutes sorting through the things under the sink until you pull out just the travel size bottle of shampoo and the two tampons you were looking for.

you'll do pretty much anything we ask of you: bring us totally randomly requested things from other spots, share your snacks, toast to our good health, sing us songs on cue. it's highly possible that these moments of complete agreeability might be fleeting so your papa and i are taking complete advantage of them - picking out cookbooks for dinner, helping sort through green beans, liberally dousing our meals with spices and stirring the waffle mix until your little arms give out.

but my favorite thing about you from this past month (aside from how you follow me into the bathroom every time, wait and then hand me toilet paper) is how you are discovering the functionality of stuff. even though we may not have a ton of amusements around the house, the things we do have are apparently quite fun.

you play guitar every day with the guitar hero controller and papa's electric. take pretend photos with the holga and real ones with the camera that was gifted to us by your grandparents in lieu of nursery furniture. you stand in front of the stereo pointing, swaying and making the signs for "more" and "music." you often request that i dust off the keyboard under the desk so that you can spend the early evenings composing songs about how much you wish your papa would come home.

you set up the puck, basketball, football, softball and soccer ball before you attempt to shoot them with the hockey stick. but, interestingly enough, you take much more accurate swipes at the beer bottles on the coffee table with no warming up or aiming at all.

and i've noticed you practicing kicking when you think we're not paying attention. and even though we are quite positive that you are absolutely clear on who is mama and who is papa, when we are all three together you consistently refer to us as "maapaa." both of those things ridiculously endearing, my dear. and so many more.

your second chicago winter has not even had a chance to slow you down. your balance is still a bit iffy, so climbing filthy snow drifts and running on salty sidewalks has taken a back seat to exploring all the facets of the indoor city.

everyday your papa and i smack ourselves on the forehead in disbelief. silas lee, you are fantastic. you are a stinker. you are beyond anyone that we could have imagined for our son, a third person in our family. just this morning your papa mentioned to me that your favorite thing to do for the first half hour of the day was climb up on top of the table and then stand there so incredibly pleased with yourself. well, my monkey, we are incredibly pleased with you too. but, please, get off the damn table. thank you.