I'll keep this brief because I am oh-so-tired, but today is Elliot's 18-month "birthday" and I feel like that deserves a moment of my time.
Here's my take on what rocks about having an 18-month old. I thought of this as we were driving home from work and school this evening. My car needed some work done on it so M and I traded vehicles, which meant I was in her pick-up, which meant E was on the seat beside me* and I could see and talk to and tickle him at will. When Elliot was a newborn, my love for him was primal; rooted in some evolutionary sense of ownership and duty. I am his mother, he is my son, of course I love him - that sort of thing. I made him from scratch, for heavens sake. At 18 months, I find I love him more because I really, really like him. His personality has taken on dimension and he has characteristics I can count on. I can honestly say I enjoy his company. He has turned into such a sweet little boy; kind, clever, talkative, adaptable, and happy, but with a temper. I feel like I'm finally getting to "meet" him as a person and not just a baby, and while I know (hope?) I would love him unconditionally, I'm thrilled to find I like him as much as I do.
*I would hasten to tell you that yes, we disabled the passenger airbag, but M's car is so old, it doesn't have a passenger airbag to disable. So, yeah. It also doesn't have power steering (or power anything for that matter) and it is sorely overdue for a paint job. Poor M. She really needs a new car. Guess it's time to buy a lottery ticket.