My favorite things

After 365 days with you I can safely say I love everything about you, Evan. But these are my favorite things:

Your grin.

You are the sly, shy grin to your brother’s huge, wide-eyed smile. Your grin is a million things -- it’s the way you flirt and the way you play, the way you get yourself out of trouble and the way you announce that trouble is coming. It’s “Look out...” and “I love you” and “Who, me?!” And I absolutely love it.

Your personality.

You are mostly a very happy-go-lucky kid, wandering around pointing at things and blowing raspberries and chasing the cat. When you’re hungry you fling open the pantry and bring me whatever snack you want. And when Daddy starts to fill the bathtub you go running toward the sound of the water, opening the cabinet and dropping in the toys you want to play with in the bubbles.

Your brother often follows you around the house, imitating your every move, falling when you fall, pointing where you point, and laughing when you laugh. You love to wrestle and dance and walk around with a drum in one hand and a drumstick in the other, banging to your own beat. It’s infectious, and we always join in.

Your eyes.

I see my father in your rounded eyebrows and the shape and color of your eyes. I see him in the way your eyes crinkle and dance when you smile. And I love that because of you, I get to see my dad every single day — that is such a gift you’ve given me. A more suitable middle name we could not have picked for you, Evan Thomas.

Your will.

You have not wanted to stay still since coming home from the hospital. You flipped over for the first time at 2 weeks old, and never stopped moving. For most of your first year you had no patience for books or blocks, you just wanted to figure out how to follow your brother, and you worked at it and worked at it until, at 10 months old, you took your first steps — toward Kostyn. The funny thing is now Kostyn often follows you.

When you are mad (usually when I’m putting on my sneakers and you know I’m leaving for the gym) you ball your hands into tiny fists and shake them at me like an old man, not crying but yelling “words,” and I can only imagine the horrible things you’re shouting. I try hard not to laugh.

When you’re done eating you don’t throw your food or sign “All done” (much to your mother’s chagrin); you merely stand up in your highchair and flash that messy grin, making one of us come running to grab you and lift you out before you fall and break your neck. We’ve rigged that darn belt and tray a dozen different ways and still you Houdini your way out of it, every meal, every day.

Yours is a will greater than most; it is a force to be reckoned with. I can’t wait to see how far and how high it takes you.

(Please, dear God, may you always land safely.)