Sebastian is funny. He hides his face with pillows and then, as you get close, he surprises you with a big smile and loud cackling laugh. He peeks his head around corners and laughs when you catch his gaze. He stuffs his face with food and laughs as crumbs fall from his mouth to the floor. He laughs again when Lady cleans his mess. He pats the bed bidding Lady to jump up and snuggle. He laughs when she settles. He laughs when he hears the Rock sing "You're Welcome." He dances a bit, too. And when he laughs and dances and sings, we laugh. We laugh a lot.  

Sebastian is difficult. He goes limp when you change his course from trouble. He wiggles out of his diaper and pees the rug. He opens drawers, all of them, all the damn drawers in the house. He takes everything from the drawers; he throws everything on the floor. He only eats when he damn well wants to. He screams and punches air when we put on his backpack. He pulls off all the donation tickets from a March of Dimes display near the register and throws them in the grocery cart. Dad makes a donation to the March of Dimes. 

Sebastian is sweet. He holds your face close and looks at you, deeply, searching for the light. He brings you books to read. He sits next to you on the couch and enjoys an episode of Curious George. He cuddles. He takes my hand and places it in Jessie's hand, and he giggles. He swims. He hugs his grandparents, all of them. He hugs Nana and Papa Almanza. He hugs Grammy Teran. He hugs Grandpa and Grandma Villarreal. He makes faces on Snapchat with Aunt Nikki. He argues with Uncle Juan and Aunt Lindsey. He plots mischief with Uncle Steve, Aunt Crystal, Cousin Noah and Cousin Liam. 

Sebastian is smart. He reads people. He fixes things. He uses cookware. He knows how to put his Kindle in sleep mode. He can drive a VW Bus. He listens to Selena and dances. He plays games and usually wins. He finds everything. 

Sebastian is 17 months.