Hansie (with a year under his belt)

The littlest Hansie-boy turned one this month.

I’ve noticed that many friends and family members – when called upon to actually use his name – suddenly get a little quieter and a little . . . mumblier. Haha. I don’t blame them. His name is pronounced differently in every country after all. And my main hesitancy – all those years of having babies and Mike wanting to name one Hans – was that nobody would know how to say it. And I was right. Nobody does. And no one can blame them. How should they know if we favor the German pronunciation, or the Norwegian, or the Swedish? So, I shall simply say here – for the benefit of any loved ones reading: we prefer the Danish pronunciation. He shares his name with many Scandinavian ancestors. Not all are Danish. But the Hans he was most particularly named after (Hans Hansen) was. So Danish it is. Which means -- just say his name as if you wished to rhyme with a shortened version of my own name (Nanc), or with “dance”, or even with “ants” or “pants” – and you’ll have it! You’ll be able to say it confidently and with nary a bit of hesitant mumbling.

Anyway. Dear dear boy. It’s impossible of course that he is one. Everyone knows that. (And just as impossible that by the time Summer was his age she was a big sister! He’s a baby for crying out loud!) But even more startling to me is that this little group of three is moving – in one united lump -- away from all babies to . . . all toddlers (though we certainly won’t claim them wholly out of babyhood before Hans starts walking and talking).

I don’t know how nicknames ever come about. But to me, if he isn’t “Hansie-boy” he is typically “squirrel”.

He loves Mike. When the rest of us hold him, rather than keep his right arm on our shoulder, he grabs ahold of our ear (or cheek or chin) for support. But with Mike he can just clutch firmly and reassuringly to his beard. I think he could spend his every moment – quite contentedly – perched in Mike’s left arm, holding his beard, watching him and alternating between tiny bursts of laughter and pursed lips (as if he’s trying to maintain a properly sophisticated air and realizes he has been laughing too much to pull it off). The poor boy never gets enough of it though. It seems he spends his entire life having to be torn from that spot so Mike can leave to work or so Hans can be put to bed. And he cries nearly every time Mike hands him back to me.

If any toy – no matter what its intended use – can be made to spin on our coffee table, that toy is his favorite.

And a thousand times a day he says – ending on a much higher/questioning pitch – “Huh??” – as if everything any of us do or say around here is slightly preposterous.

He is a delightful little fellow and while, most often, he is squirmy and wiggly, every once in awhile, when I take him up to bed, he lets me simply hug him – his little cheek pressed to my lips. I kiss him and whisper to him and pray over him and feel that little life has to offer is any better.