awa coco

Dear Chicken Nugget,

One of the beauties of toddler-hood is that you get to try out new sound combinations to make words. One of the miracles I get to experience as a father is watching you do this.

One of your first words was "agua," spanish for water. The way you say it, it sounds more like "awa." Not to be confused with "awawa," which is what you call your abuela.

Recently you discovered coconut water, one of your mom's favorites, and you'll see anything that resembles a coconut and call out "coco." The other day, in a conversation with your abuela, I heard you try to say, "agua de coco" by saying "awa coco."

At dinner a few days ago you remembered that we had picked up some coconut water at the store. After downing some broccoli, brown rice, water chestnuts, and baby corn, you thirstily looked up and said, "awa coco," and pointed towards the refrigerator. I filled up a sippy cup with "awa coco" which you chugged down rather quickly.

After refilling the cup you went back to work on dinner. Nowadays you tell us when you're done eating by giving us an all-done sign with your hands. After giving us your all-done sign you once again asked for "awa coco." Your abuela suggested that I fill up your sippy cup with regular water and just a tad of coconut water, to test out your taste buds.

With my back turned to you to block my deception, I pretended to pour in new coconut water into your sippy cup. You took it with a smile and started drinking happily. It took about two seconds for you to put down the cup and angrily call out, "awa!" You tasted it again. "Awa!"

Your abuela tried convincing you that it was "awa coco" but you would have none of it.

You shrugged your shoulders and continued drinking but would stop every now and then to point at your sippy cup and let us know that you were on to us. "Awa!" you kept repeating.

You're one smart Nugget and the ability to communicate with words and signs is making life so much easier and fun for all of us.


I love you and your words,

Tu papa

a different kind of writing

Dear Chicken Nugget,

My last letter to you was about six months ago. Since then a lot has happened in our lives: you turned one, you learned to walk, you began to talk, dear loved ones passed away, and your mom went back to graduate school full-time while continuing to help women bring their babies into this world.

My writing in the last six months has come to a complete stand-still, not because I have nothing left to say, in fact, I compose new letters in my head constantly, but because of you :).

Your mom and I have found that our computer time is very limited now that you can walk and talk. If I wanted to make time to sit at the computer to write a letter it would be in exchange for sleep - and most parents will agree that that's not a good trade-off.

Instead I've been watching you grow, I've been watching you learn and develop, and I've been providing the guidance you need to do it all safely. I figure it's a more active way of teaching you than writing letters.

Still, I will not give up on this little adventure completely. My hope is that I can still sit down occasionally to write a letter to you that is profound or at least funny.

In the meantime, I have started a different kind of writing, one that has you as an audience as well. I pulled out an old moleskine I had on my bookshelf and began putting together a sort of memoir (or, random thoughts by me centered around what I love the most - God, family and running). I imagine that writing in a notebook may be more productive than the kind needing the computer. We'll see how that works out.

If any of it goes public, it'll be found here. Otherwise, I'll make sure to leave this moleskine in my will to you.

There's a lot I want to tell you and teach you, Nugget, but there's only so many hours in the day. I'd rather spend those hours reading to you, jumping with you, and holding your hand. If an extra hour pops up, you'll find it in the form of an extra letter, an entry in the moleskin, or a happier well-rested papi.

 I love you more than I can write,

Tu papa