Newsletter to Logan

So one of my favorite blogs to read is dooce.com and every month she writes a newsletter to her daughter Leta. I have been thinking for the last couple weeks that I should post something about Logan and the funny things he has been doing. I've been trying to think of a way to do it, so when I read the latest post on dooce I decided that she's got something going with the newsletter so I'm going to give it a shot, but I'm not promising this will happen on any sort of a regular basis!

~15 Month Newsletter~
Ok Logan, I'm sure you already are well aware that your mother is a slacker. You are 15 months old and you don't have so much as one well intentioned picture/keepsake/memento stuck in any sort of a well-intentioned baby book. Your Aunt Lisa has tried, by giving me a beautiful pre-made scrapbook with spots for pictures, suggestions for quotes, etc., but I have yet to do anything with it. I do have a lock of your hair stuck in a baggie in my jewelry box though. I bet if you looked right now you'd find it still there.

All of my slackerness/laziness aside I must say that you have a part in this problem. You are wild. Your Grandma Hillier always told me that if you had your second child first, you wouldn't have had any more. It was meant as a dig toward me of course, but I don't think it is true in our case. We love you kid, but boy you have put your parents through the ringer! In fact, if you do end up with any siblings consider yourself lucky. Everything I attempt to do while you are awake is immediately sabotaged by you, you darling thing. Your dad and I love the mischief that is constantly in your eyes but make no mistake child, we are not kidding when we say you are wild.

Ok, now that I think you have probably gotten the picture I want to move on to the reason I am writing this. I'm writing this so that someday when you are searching for that baby book, (while I hope and pray you find one complete with pictures in the right spots and your lock of hair placed strategically next to the pictures I took of your first haircut), if you don't find that book you will know that I did love you and I did want to remember this time in your life.

You are starting to talk and it is by far the best thing ever. Your first word (that I am going to count anyway) was ball. You started saying this around 12 months and it was before your tongue was clipped so it sort of sounded like bah but I knew what you meant. This was followed by kick, dog, duck, shoes, eyes, moh (more) and a few others that I can't remember right now. You also say Oh, daddy and it is so SO cute but your dad and I have determined that lots of things are "OH, Daddy" so it's lost a little of its appeal to him. The other day I decided I should teach you who Jesus is. I'm horribly afraid that I won't teach you the gospel the way I should and I was already feeling like I was behind and your first words should have been "I Nephi, having been born of goodly parents...". So I pointed to the picture of Jesus above our TV and said Jesus. I did that over and over and over until I thought you were sick of it. You figured it out though. Now I ask you where Jesus is and your head turns to that picture, you point and say "sheshus". I melt. I absolutely melt.

You know so much more than you can say though and we love to show off how smart you are. Logan, go get your shoes. Logan, throw that in the trash. Logan, take mom's shoes off your hands and put them in the closet. Logan, make dad a sandwich. We tell you the name of my favorite book, I Love You Through and Through, and you go get it and we read it together. We hand you a stuffed puppy and you give him loves by holding him tight and rocking from side to side. You give kisses and hugs, but only when you want to, the other times you shake your head in the most aggravating way. At night when we are all hanging out on the floor you come up to me and pull my shirt up and blow raspberries on my stomach and laugh. Your dad sticks his feet in your face and you say "Ew, uck." You can point to your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your other eyes (more commonly known as ears) and when someone asks to see your belly you lift up your shirt and point one finger directly into your cute little pudge (we might have to get you to stop doing that on command when you're a teenager).

These are the things I want you to know. The things I hope I remember but probably won't. These are the things I couldn't put in a scrapbook, so I'm going to keep them for you the best way I know how, by writing them down for you in a way that will undoubtedly confirm your fear that your mother is in fact, crazy.