A whole lot of almost two

Recently, Andy asked what Tuck’s first word was.  We both struggled to recall.  With Celia I kept meticulous track of things like teeth and tricks.   I have not noted every new development of Tucker’s.  Sometimes I think I can hear him growing, and I don't want to regret not having some record of milestone minutiae.

He soaks up whatever we mete out, copying sentences, mannerisms, every day tasks and things he's only seen or heard once before.  Through his imitations we see ourselves, and it is both hilarious and humbling to see our own imperfections mirrored by a toddler.
He communicates effectively, but there are still times that my translation, or telepathy, fail.  As a result, he tends to perform a three part Greek tragedy.  Other times though he really is scared, or hurt, or tired and when those tears come and his little lip trembles, my heart trembles too.
He can "jump so high" and "kick" a ball and march and hop and spin.  He's over high-fives, and likes to fist bump.  A lot.

At church on Christmas Eve he clapped after every hymn.  Near the end of the service, during candlelight Silent Night, he sang "Happy birthday," which, after some thought, kind of made sense -- he'd been to a birthday party for Aunt Vicky the week before, and there were candles and a large group of people singing.  In addition to the birthday song and the "ABCDs," Tuck sings Jingle Bells, Row Your Boat, and his old favorite, Wheels on the Bus.

Sometimes when he stacks blocks or scribbles on paper or completes nearly any ordinary task, he congratulates himself with a hearty “Good job.”
Lately he's developed the habit of saying thanks.  "Fank you, Mama" for helping him with his shoes, "Fank you, guy" to the waiter at our favorite Mexican restaurant, "Fank you, lollipop" to the teller at the bank.

Separation anxiety is easing, and when someone he loves leaves, he says “See you later” and reminds himself, periodically, "Daddy always comes back."
He likes to talk on the telephone, he has ticklish knees, and when he dirties his diaper he A) blames Aunt Kate's dog, Sebi, or B) says "Sorry guys."
In the grocery produce section, his finger points to oranges, his face as joyful as the helium balloons one aisle over.  He likes to peel oranges and bananas, and usually eats the fruit.  His current favorite foods are pizza and popsicles.
He has several books memorized -- Goodnight Moon and Now I Eat my ABCs among them.   “Chicka Boom Boom letters all fall down, read it” his summary is impressive, his request irresistible.  I read him one of my own favorites a few weeks ago and he perseverated on part of the plot all day --“Corduroy fall. Cord sad. Cord kiss,” empathy spilling from his little lips.

He's getting better at sharing.  "Here go, Colby,” he says, attaching the sticker that was on his shirt to the fur on the dog’s head.  "Here go, Celie" piling at least a dozen balls on top of her.
This week he's added a few new phrases to his repertoire.  He'll tell everyone and everything, even trucks, they're "gorgeous."  And instead of always saying "no," now he says "I don't fink so."
His routines seem rigid one moment, and then evaporate the next.  His imagination seems spectacular.  He seems to us like a miraculous little package of potential.
JEB