Dear Parks,

The other day your Nana sent me a text message that said, "I need more flogging" and it was only right before I was about to smartly answer back, "Well, yes, on most days I agree" that I realized the text actually said, "I need more BLOGGING." And, since Nana hasn't taken up a spot on the blog roll lately, I'm thinking she means ME.

When I finally realized what she was talking about I thought back and realized that with everything that's been going on since...oh, MAY, that I haven't had time to get on here and tell you everything cool that you've been doing. Mainly because I'm too busy spending time watching you do cool shit. But, I'll stop with the gushing.

It may also seem suspicious to some that the absolute black out on blog postings came about the same time you learned to walk well enough that you quickly turned into an 80-year-old Grandma about it and decided to trade in your knees. Kid, we can't keep up with you!

First, by some freak of nature you're twice the size of a normal one-year-old. You wear a 2T and were so tall at your one year check up that the nurse actuallly said, "I can't tell you what percentile she is in height because she's off the top of the chart." Unfortunately, the ability to empty the dishwasher or scrub the toilet has yet to appear on your development curve. Mama's waiting on those two. Those two are important.

Second, you are extremely, extremely FAST. I've never seen anything like it in professional sports. They should put 13-month-olds on basketball courts. I turn around for five seconds and you are GONE. And, what's worse, you are QUIET. When you are GONE and QUIET your father and I secretly have quiet panic attacks until one of us locates you. Usually this is in a bathroom splashing in a toilet...or sucking on one of your dad's dirty socks. To tell you the honest truth...sometimes we can't get to you before the "Thing That Isn't Supposed To Be Eaten" gets eaten.

It's probably fitting that you got your first real "virus" this past week. You've been in and out of everywhere the past three weeks and we can't keep you from licking most foreign objects. I'd pretty much expected you to contract some form of flesh-eating something way earlier than this point. But, instead of flesh eating there is just a "virus". There isn't even a name for it. The Doc just called it a "virus". It's caused a croupy, rattly sounding cough, a low grade fever, some intermittant general malaise and a reduction in your appetite.

The Doc was unable to explain much about its origin or progression other than us just letting it "work its course" and that sometimes "kids just pick up these things". It was about then that my mind flashed back to exactly a week prior when we were in Chatanooga (family reuinion...WHOLE OTHER Butterknife blog entry) eating at "Mud Pie" and I took you into the bathroom to change your diaper (as shitting in public is now your second full time job-behind being cute, of course) and when I dropped you down to stand on the floor in order to rehook the changing station I turned back around to find you rubbing your hands on it. Yes, THE FLOOR. IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM. Right after I had a panic attack, took a Xanax, and located the nearest antibacterial hand soap, I lathered you up to your elbows like you were prepping for surgery and just prayed that whatever disease you incurred didn't cause you to sleep less or cry more. Fortunately, this "virus" did both. YEAH FOR ME!!

Other than being "quick, fast and nimble" you are becoming increasingly more verbal. Every day. The pace of your language aquisition freaks me out. You know all your body parts, animals, and bodily functions. (Hey, we don't want you to miss out on the joys of farting!) You learn more every day. One day, you walked into the dining room when I was turning on the lamp and you pointed and said, "Light!" and I said, "WELL, I'LL BE DAMNED." My second sentence was, "Who taught you that?" Because we didn't. Weird kid.

We quickly figured out that you were in that stage of learning where several new words could be aquired in a given day. We delighted in teaching you "feet", and "hands", and "high five", and "POOP?" We excitidely told you everything we were doing and the name of everything you could possibly pick up. Not only were your Mom and Dad excited about it, but your Nana and GG were as well.

In fact, one Sunday after Nana kept you the night before so your father and I could hang out and talk about things that didn't involve your POOP, we walked into the kitchen and she exclaimed, "LOOK WHAT I'VE TAUGHT HER!" (I had to stop myself from asking if it was our taxes because we desperately need some good help with them.)

Your Nana looked at you and asked, "Parksie, where is your belly button?" And you immediately hiked up your dress above your waist, displayed your belly very proudly, and then vigorously stuck your finger into it. Everyone was very excited.

Everyone was clapping and saying lots of "GOOD GIRL" and all I could think was, "Way to go NANA! You've just pretty much taught my child how to get free beads at Mardi Gra." Guess we can go ahead and knock that one off the "Parenting To Do" list.

Although, I will readily admit that this "belly button" exposure has turned into a game for the family. Every morning you now wake up and have to find Dada's "BOO-EE-BUH-ON". This leads to a game where you lift up his t-shirt and firmly stick your index finger into his belly button then look up excitedly waiting for the clapping and praise. We oblige and then you wait one minute before you perform the exact same trick for the exact same price. Occasionally, you will throw in a viewing of your belly button for free. We all giggle and laugh and it's very cute. One would have thought you discovered a way to get paid for not working with the way we react each time.

This all leads to this evening. Tonight, while I'm pretty sure you were high on your cough medicine prescribed for your "virus", you climbed up onto the couch and threw yourself onto my lap giggling. You were teasing me and hiding your head while I was trying to kiss your neck. All of a sudden, you popped up, snatched down my shirt, and poked my boob (YES, I SAID "BOOB"). This is not totally strange to me as here lately you've had some days where you act like you aren't aware the milk factory closed almost a year ago. But, this time, you poked my boob, then put your finger right above my cleavage. You looked at me questioningly, like, "What is this strange valley in your chest? But more importantly, are their cheddar crackers hidden in it?" And, as you poked your finger into my cleavage for a third time (and right before I was about to demand dinner and a drink), your eyes lit up with understanding and you exclaimed, "MAMA BOO-EE-BUH-ON"!

And, well, I just agreed with you. Because when you ask at the age of 13 "Why aren't my belly buttons growing?" I can just have a large laugh, another glass of wine, and think about how wonderfully entertaining it is to be a parent. Much like tonight.

Love you Toot B,
Mama