15 Months: The Real Version

At 15 months old, the Bean is officially that perplexing equation of equal parts baby, toddler, and tornado. 

The kind of tornado whose path leaves no bookshelf unbooked or goldfish cracker uncrackered. 

Probably at least an F3 on the storm scale, or whichever one makes you hide in the bathtub with two chocolate bars and a bottle of coconut rum.

I can't imagine (remember)* what it's like to encompass such a vast amount of unbridled natural energy at my disposal each and every day. 

Morning. Afternoon. Evening. 

The smattering of wooden building blocks meeting hardwood floor means, "Awake," or "Hey You Guys Trying To Have Fun Without Me, Well, I'm Still Here, I'll Be Here Allllllllllll Night, Blalguauealughughdufjjfuerur!"

Sometimes, I have to remind myself that his middle name, the "J", stands for "James" not "Julius Caesar."**

Especially during the reigning dictatorship of 6PM-8:00PM.

His onslaught of macaroni and heavy taxation of patience will not defeat us. 

Not this time, Bean Julius!

8 minutes later...

We have made it to bath time. Shells of our former selves. But, alive. {Have you ever scrubbed thirty noodles off of hardwood floor? Enough to make a grown man cry. I've seen it}

And finally, we're in the home stretch! Pajamas. Toothbrush. Book. Mini meltdown because Daniel looked at him funny. Crib. Door closed. This must be what an IronMan competitor feels like when they crawl through the finish line. Sweaty, wobbly, covered in pee. Yup. 

Then, the strangest thing happens several hours later. After the celebratory champagne has been poured. After we've toppled wearily into bed. 

we look.at photos.of.the bean. 

The same Dictator Bean who has ruled from dawn 'til dusk since November 2012.

The same tornado on legs that pelted an entire table of Starbucks' patrons with cheerios because, "Bean Julius, you cannot drink caramel macchiatos," is not in his manifesto.

It's only been about 3 hours,(of blissful peace and freedom to use the bathroom alone for all), since we last saw him, and yet we can hardly wait to hear those wooden blocks crash on the floor tomorrow morning. And the next, and the next, and the next...

He's got my vote for, forever. 

xoxo

{Bon Bon}

*Legend has it, I would gleefully leap out of my Daisy Kingdom daybed at 6AM on the dot back in my bright-eyed-bushy-tailed years and yell, "Woman, where are my waffles?" My poor parents. 

Let's take a moment of silence for all of those Saturday mornings I took for granted.

**OR "Joule." But I thought that an obscure physics joke might be too much of a stretch, even for me. 

Plus, growing up, we had a cat named Brutus. So, things are really coming full circle in my life...obscure history joke. 

I'm done.

Seriously though, R.I.P Brutus.