Friday, March 30, 2012

# 17 (I think)

Dear Johnny,

You are two and a half.  Yesterday you were two days.  Tomorrow you will be twelve.  This is getting ridiculous.  Your dad and I are committed to the idea of only having one child.  You're it.  You are my one chance to rock and cuddle and sing lullabies and dress you up funny.  So please slow down and let me enjoy it just a tiny bit longer.

You see, your mother is a bit of a defeatist.  Every time you reach your small hand up to hold mine (which is often, thank the Baby Jesus), I feel that this could be the last time.  I think, "Before I know it, he'll be a pre-teen and he'll hate me and he'll never hug me or hold my hand again."  Every time you snuggle up with me on the couch before bedtime, I think, "Well, this is it. Probably my last snuggle." And then I kiss you and squeeze you so much that you get up, wiping your face with your hand, saying "Ewwwy Mommy! Ewwy!"  Yep, see. I was right all along.

But you are a big boy in so many ways.  For example, yesterday we went to the doctor, and not to be indelicate, but I screamed at her to fix your poop.  You, son, cannot poop. You have never been particularly gifted in this area, but it's getting out of control.  For example, you tend to get diaper rash when I give you the necessary Mirilax.  Also, I believe you will never be potty trained because of this affliction.  So yesterday I took you to the doctor, handed you over, and said "Fix him."  She ordered some lab work, and so my itty bitty baby boy had his first blood draw.  But you were a CHAMP! They wrapped you up like a burrito in a sheet so that the one arm would not assault the draw site and I leaned over and and waggled Thomas The Tank Engine in your face (torture, right? Thomas RIGHT THERE and you can't touch him?) and you choo-choo'ed and All-Aboarded right through that needle stick. I'm not gonna say you didn't cry a little and I'm not gonna say you didn't have a flop sweat by the time it was over, but all-in-all, I was so proud.  When the nurse and phlebotomist were finished sticking you and taking your precious blood, you said, "Thank you," and I collapsed into a puddle of quivering mommy goo.  So did they - only it was nurse and vampire goo.  "He's the best," the nurse said. I think she really meant it.

I couldn't agree more.  You THANKED THEM for sticking you in the arm.  That, my son, is what we call MANNERS.

You are delighted with everything these days.  You love Thomas The Tank Engine more than you love your dad and me, but that's okay because we know how fickle you can be. Last month it was Spiderman.

I'm also very happy to report that you are a confident man of the 21st Century.  You proudly donned your friend Sloanie's tutu and Sesha's headband the other day and played for hours with the girls like, "What? I like pretty things, too."  And then the next day you found my dollies in a trunk in my bedroom.  Immediately you stripped the pretty blue dress off of one (apparently you are not THAT confident with your masculinity) but you have carried "him" around for three days solid, gently patting the baby's back and tucking him in for night-night.  Watch out Elmo.  There's a new kid in town.
Firemen came to Ballard.  You were, in a word, overjoyed.  3-29-12

All of this to day, you are an extremely good boy, even though you can't poop.  We love you with all of our hearts and souls and frankly, we're whipped.  Ask me for frosting for dinner tonight.  You'll probably get it.

All my love,


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