I could be wrong.

Some days, when I'm feeling well rested and he's on his best behavior, when he sits at the counter and leads our conversation in astonishing directions and every task he undertakes is remarkable, I think this must be my favorite age.  He is a year and a half of perfection.  How could any other stage be better?
When he perches with one leg chicken-winged beneath him, his pink tongue touring the perimeter of his lips, carefully collecting stray hummus, I think this is it.  When he walks through a group of gathered relatives (once he's done with a preliminary peer from behind my knees) he's as social as a politician working a crowd, shaking hands and giving high fives, happily greeting people by name.  Hello twenty month Tucker, you are my unabashed favorite.  When he smiles at me and makes me feel like my very existence, my proximity to his block building, my involvement in his read-aloud routine, counts as the pinnacle of his day, possibly his lifetime, I am smitten.  Right now is ideal.  And other days, even when I'm exhausted and he's off kilter, even when he's reorganized the pantry shelves and abused his permission to open the refrigerator, when his head is slightly cocked into an apostrophe, eyebrows furrowed and face glowering, I wonder whether he'll ever be as splendid.  Surely this time between one and two is the best.  

And then I remember what it felt like when he was just a lump on my hip, an immobile bundle of digestive processes.  That was my favorite, that and the time before, when he fit so perfectly in the hammock of my arms.
Right now twenty months is my favorite.  But I'll be happy to let him prove me wrong again soon.
JEB