One and a Half Jack

Jack is sleeping or he is a whirlwind of chaos.  He likes all things little boys are supposed to like; cars, sports, playing ball, whacking things with a sword, running after women with his wolf claws out and growling,  climbing and jumping from the top of things and most of all pretending to be big.  His dark eyes glower when he's told "no" in a way that assures me he'll have to get some sort of fight training in life, both to back up his uncontrollable glare and to rein it in. His laugh starts with squinched up eyes, and a wide smile full of pearly teeth, one already chipped from a mishap while running on cement.  He'll give you five if he likes you and he feels like it, and sometimes he'll put his whole open mouth on your face and give you a kiss.  He speaks in song; though he doesn't always get the consonants or the vowels right, he does match syllables, cadence and melody.  We have a joke we tell when we're in the middle of a project and Jack runs into the next room, you say "What can he possibly get into in ten seconds?" and you laugh maniacally while setting the project aside in a hurry and giving chase.  Because soon he will be naked and shaking a lamp, or moving the dog food, or buttering someone on the head.  He's hopelessly devoted to his big sister who loves him enough to afford him all the patience a seven year old can muster.  Under a layer of baby chub, he's sinewy, independent and determined.  He's almost one and a half.