Three Minus Two

Dear Love Bug,

It’s been forever because of sheer exhaustion. I’ve missed writing about at least a million noteworthy things (tackling playground climbing walls entirely on your own, attempting to dress and undress yourself, conversations about cemeteries and rainbows), but I’ve just been too tired, too distracted, too entirely consumed by The Project.

Well, The Project launches tomorrow, and then it’s kind of out of our hands for a while. Our house–my home for a decade, the one we brought you back from the hospital to, the one that’s witnessed all these firsts of yours–is going on the market. Tomorrow. It seems surreal, especially since it’s mostly empty and doesn’t really feel like “us” anymore. I also can’t find anything I’m looking for, which is particularly frustrating. As is having to prep it for potential showings each morning while getting you out of bed (increasingly challenging with each passing day, and you’re just turning 3, not 13), dressed, washed, fed, and out the door so we can all get to our respective day jobs on time.

Once it’s under contract, and please, please, please God, let that happen as quickly as possible, we’ll begin looking for our forever home. And when I say forever, I mean literally I want to take my last breath in that house, as I will never ever do this again. I haven’t even really let myself think about the house hunting, as I’ve been so focused on the house prepping and selling. But that’ll be the next step: finding a house we fall in love with and can be comfortable in, one you can grow in without feeling cramped or discouraged from spreading out. We’d love a big backyard and lots of green. Our souls need it, at this point.

While all the house prep has been going for the past six or seven weeks, you’ve slowly crept your way toward 3. And here we are, two days out. I’m much less prepared for your birthday than I’ve ever been in the past, but I guess we’ll wing it this year. Daddy and I have taken the day off of work again this year to spend your day with you, and it’s just as well, as your camp/school is closed. You say you want to go to the Science Center, which is your recent most favorite place ever. So that’s what we’ll do, topped off with present opening and Carvel cake eating and then dinner, most likely at IHOP, which is your most favorite restaurant ever.

Your party is Sunday, and I’m so thankful I bought a bunch of decorations off of another mom, as there’s been no bandwidth for crafting. It’s going to be a highly commercialized, exceptionally unstructured party. And it’s Paw Patrol themed up the wazoo, which I know will make you happy. I even snagged a Paw Patrol pin-the-badge-on-Chase, which I hope you’ll want to participate in. You’ve been very into birthday pinatas lately but not so much into pin-the-tail games. Maybe it’s the blindfold aspect.

I’m looking forward, for a few sweet hours that day, to doing nothing but focusing on you, my big-hearted, super-social, loquacious 3-year-old. You deserve it.

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Go trademark it!

Dear Love Bug,

You’ve been asleep for hours on your magical blow-up toddler bed at Nonna’s. I think it must be made with chloroform because you power down the second you crawl into it and you’ve been known to sleep for 13, possibly 14, hours in it. 

I’m tucked into the futon in the basement, where I’ve slept the best sleeps of my life. May we both wake up refreshed because I’m exhausted. Not only have I been packing, painting, and yard sale posting for a week straight (The Project progresses), I’m flying solo this weekend because Daddy’s at Man Camp. All I can say is props to all the single parents out there. 

That being said, you’ve been particularly delightful lately. I mean, you’ve been amazing. Not perfect, by any means. But just so good. Is this the ramp-up to Three? If this is what your fourth year looks like, I say gimme more. I’ve heard from many, many, many people that 3 is worse than 2. I’ve had a hard time envisioning what that might look like because 2 has been difficult bordering on disaster. I kept wondering how it could get any worse. But now I’m wondering if you just had a particularly terrible 2 and maybe 3 won’t be so bad?

Some examples of your turn toward awesome: 

  • You feel remorse. You’ll still throw things on the floor, but then you’ll realize this isn’t OK and you’ll actually apologize and then pick them up. 
  • Bedtime has been miraculously drama free. You’ll maybe try to bargain for another book or some extra cuddles, but when we say it’s bedtime, you pretty much roll over and go to sleep. 
  • You tell us you love us all the time. And if we say it to you, you say, “I love you back.”
  • The physical manifestations (biting, hitting, kicking) of anger have all but disappeared. I don’t remember the last time you lashed out at one of us violently. Today, you got mad and kind of stomped around and then turned to me and said, “I’m frustrated!” The other night, out of nowhere, you said to me, “I’ll never ever pinch you again.” (It wasn’t like you had just done it or anything–you were just sitting there.) I was like, “Uh, thanks!”
  • Not always, but when I ask you to do something, you’ve begun to say, “OK, Mamma.” 

It’s not all rainbows and butterflies, don’t get me wrong. Last night at Sorrento’s, you flipped your pizza over onto my purse and ruined it, for example. But we are trending in the right direction. 

Also, our conversations have become so smart. In the car on the way down here, we were listening to your CD, and “This Old Man” came on. You know, “This old man, he plays seven, he plays seven up in heaven, with a knick knack paddy whack give a dog a bone …” You listened intently and then said, “Mom, what’s heaven?” I had instant sweaty palms. “Uh, it’s a place,” I responded. You chewed on that, and I steeled myself for a follow-up question that never came but will soon enough, I’m sure. You’ve never asked about song lyrics like that before. 

And then this evening, you requested Team Umi Zoomi, your new obsession, and Nonna got it loaded up on Amazon. We wound up talking about the delivery method, and you said, “No, Amazoff.” It took me a split second, but then I got it, and I was speechless. How clever of you. Go trademark it. 

Love you like crazy, kiddo,

Mamma 

Jesus Christ and Other Stories

Dear Love Bug,

I fear these notes may be increasingly few and far between. Daddy and I are working on a project that may be months in the making, and it’s occupying a lot of free time. It’s also much too premature to really say anything about it, but if I’m not writing as regularly, that’s why. 

It’s a long Fourth of July weekend, and we’ve hit the dog days of summer. Thick air, immediate sweat, intense thunderstorms. None of it seems to phase you. You ran wild around your friend D’s house this afternoon while we were there for an early Independence Day cookout, usurping all his toys. You have a big personality, and sometimes I feel like you steamroll quieter kids. 

And speaking of quiet, you are not at all it. Aside from talking incessantly, which you’ve been doing for a while now, you have taken to repeating yourself over and over again if you get no response or a response you don’t agree with. It’ll go something like this, which a actually happened today:

Me: “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge so I think we’ll have that for lunch.”

You: “I want peanut butter jelly for lunch.”

Me: “But we need to eat the pizza before it goes bad so we’ll eat that.”

You: “I want peanut butter jelly for lunch.”

Me: . . .

You: “I want peanut butter jelly for lunch. I want peanut butter jelly for lunch. I want peanut butter jelly for lunch. I want peanut butter jelly for lunch. I want peanut butter jelly for lunch. I want peanut butter jelly for lunch. I want peanut butter jelly for lunch.”

This morning, when Daddy and I were upstairs getting ready to head out with you to run some errands, we heard you bang into something downstairs, followed by “Ow! Jesus Christ!” I nearly died. It’s not like I ever say that or anything. 

How come you repeat that but not our constant pleases and thank yous?

The other day, we were headed down to Food Truck Wednesday at the firehouse–it’s become somewhat of a midweek ritual at this point–with Daddy hauling you down in your wagon. As you were bouncing along the sidewalk, you declared, “I want a dog. Can I have one for my birthday?” (Your birthday, by the way, has become an obsession. You talk about it All. The. Time. In fact, it’s become your way of showing or repealing favor. If you’re feeling lovey toward us, it’s “You can come to my birthday party.” If you’re mad: “You can’t come to my birthday party!” Said with all the will of an angry toddler. 

Anyway, we both responded “no” because ain’t no way in hell that’s gonna happen. But you pressed us. “Why can’t I have a dog?” I responded, “I don’t think the kitties would be very happy if we got a dog.” You thought a bit, then said, “Well, can we get two dogs?” Of course this is perfectly logical. We have two cats, so getting a single dog wouldn’t work. They each need one, obvs. 

Oh, Sweet Pea, you keep me so entertained. 

Love you like crazy, kiddo,

Mamma

When I was your age …

Dear Love Bug,

The weather these past few days has been phenomenal. Yesterday, after a day that went like this–blueberry pancakes, Nonna and Opa’s pool, three-hour nap, Rita’s, PerSmart (one of your favorite places)–we cleaned off the deck table and hauled up the market umbrella and had an incredibly civilized dinner on the deck. Daddy grilled up bacon cheeseburgers. You had already bathed and were in pajamas and wearing flip-flops and you sat in one of the folding deck chairs like a big boy. You plowed through the watermelon feta salad and asked for more. 

I took a look around and realized how charming that moment was. There was no yelling or throwing of food, no crying or whining. We were sitting outside with nothing to see but the tops of the trees that line our backyard. There were cold drinks in bottles and delicious food. It doesn’t happen often, but boy, when it happens, I feel like I can accomplish anything. It was nearly perfect. 

While we were sitting there, you were having a conversation with Daddy about Star Wars, and you said, “Dad, when I was your age, we didn’t even have Star Destroyers.” I nearly choked on my delicious burger.

It all went so well that we decided to try it again this evening. This time we had Trader Joe’s pizza, and you gobbled it up and asked for more. You talked about your day at camp; it sounded awful. You got to wear PJs all day and make your own pineapple pizza for lunch. You were bummed you didn’t get to play in the “wrecker” room, but you spent a lot of time on the playground, and you wanted to give me a tour of it before we headed home. At a certain point, you said, “I love you, Mom and Dad.” Daddy and I both turned into big puddles of mush. 

You’ve been so sweet and so kind lately, sharing your toys and your food, thanking us, saying you love us–I’m not sure what to make of it. But instead of spending my time trying to figure it out, I think I’ll just enjoy it. 

Love you like crazy, kiddo,

Mamma

I love your hair!

Dear Love Bug,

You actually said this to me today. Along with “I love your shirt!” and many unprompted “I love you!”s. 

Every time you pay me a compliment (which is amazing, by the way), I pay you one back. I want to teach you that it’s nice to do that, and I rather enjoy our mutual admiration society. 

When we got home from the library this afternoon (we’re working on your “library voice,” which you haven’t yet mastered), Daddy was eating chips and offered you one. And you said, “Thanks for sharing with me, Daddy.”

Who is this child? Can this possibly be the effects of two days at camp? What are they feeding you? 

Of course, it didn’t stop the total meltdown before bed over having to use the potty. I’ll save that for another post. 

Love you like crazy, kiddo,

Mamma

Happy Camper

Dear Love Bug,

It’s been a while, I know, and I apologize, as I’m letting some pretty important moments whiz past without memorializing them. I’ve been wrapped up in a freelance project and, you know, life. But I couldn’t let today slip by without writing to you about it, as it was a Biggie.

This morning Daddy dropped you off at summer camp, aka school (what we grown-ups call preschool). This preschool is pretty cool, though, in that it offers a summer camp program for toddlers that runs mid-June to mid-August, and it’s chock full of activities. We have a color-coded calendar hanging on our fridge, and every single day is marked with a special activity–from make-your-own-lunch Mondays to water day Tuesdays to field trips, karate, movies, computers, magicians, tie-dying, luaus, crab feasts, and more. When I first signed you up and was told you’d be in the 3s room with your friend A (who is precisely two months older than you; I’m guessing you’re the youngest kid in the class, since you don’t turn three until the end of August), I asked if there was a 30s room that I might be able to join. (By the way, you’ve begun to pronounce, “My birthday is the twenty-fifth of August!”)

But beyond the activities, this is the kind of environment in which you spend the day in a classroom with a teacher and a dozen other kids of approximately the same age. It really is your first foray into a school-like atmosphere. You have a cubby on a wall lined with cubbies. You have a backpack and a lunch bag with a tiny bento box inside it that we fill with tiny portions of food. You have a cot for nap time, and you’re expected to drink from a cup (without the sippy) and go potty on your own.

Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck all last night as I was prepping your things–gathering changes of clothes and bedding, carefully deciding what bite-sized foods to include in your lunch–and thinking about what if you can’t manage the potty by yourself or what if you refuse to nap? What if you start acting wild, as you have a tendency to do, and you lash out or use bad words or are destructive? What if you hate it or have anxiety and spend the whole day crying?

You, on the other hand, were cool as a cucumber. You excitedly told everyone you saw yesterday (and it was quite a few people, as we celebrated Father’s Day with Daddy’s side of your family and with Nonna and Opa) that you were going to summer camp. This morning, you did your thing, ignoring my frantic dance around the house to make sure you had everything you need. You even tolerated official first-day-of-camp-but-really-it’s-preschool photos out on the front porch in the classic Maryland June 100 percent humidity.

Daddy gave me a full report on Gchat later in the morning. Apparently, you’d clung to his leg for a second before you got to your classroom. And then you were off! After leaving your things in your cubby, you brushed past him to get into the room and start playing, and he went on his merry way. No tears. No fussing. No nothing.

When I arrived to pick you up, I stopped first at the office to sign you out. Ms. K, the director, told me that Ms. S, your teacher, had made a point to stop in to tell her that you are the sweetest child and that you integrated so well into the classroom with such little fuss that she wished all her kids were like you. I think my jaw must have hit the floor. She went on and on about what an angel you are and how easy you made things and how nicely you played. I asked if she was sure she had the right kid.

In the classroom, Ms. T, the aide, said you did beautifully. There were no tears, as she said they always expect on the first day, and to boot you had no issues with the potty (not even without a stool!), ate all your lunch, and had a great nap. You were happy to see me but weren’t in a rush to leave, and when we finally left the classroom, you wanted to give me a tour of the place. Like you own it. I asked about your favorite part of the day, and you said it was when you went up to the “wrecked” (rec) room in the afternoon (apparently the rain this afternoon kept you from going out to the playground) to play with the balls. You even got to kick a ball from the stage!

I found a shirt for you to wear today that says “HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS.” In the car, you told me, “I love your shirt, Mom!” (Huh?) So I told you I love yours. You asked me what your shirt said, so I told you. For the rest of the evening, you declared, “My shirt says I’m here to make new friends!”

I’m excited for you to develop those friendships and to gossip to me in the car on the way home about the other kids, as you did at Ms. G’s. I’m excited about all the new experiences you’ll have–a cruise in the inner harbor, a magician, a tour of Ravens stadium, building a stuffed animal, cooking your own lunch–and the way you’ll become accustomed to life in a classroom.

“School is good,” you said multiple times after we visited last week. And I truly believe you’re happy there.

Love you like crazy, kiddo,

Mamma

Rockstar Woes

Dear Love Bug,

It started first thing this morning when you climbed into bed with us at 10 to 7 (damn this room and all its natural light) and lay absolutely still sandwiched between us for more than an hour. 

Then, when I took you to the bathroom for our ritual morning Pull-up removal, I realized you were dry for the second night in a row! Woohoo! When you were perched on your step stool, you looked down at your PJs and said “Look at my cool blast-off shirt!” I said “Your PJs are cool! Wish I had a pair.” And you said “I’ll buy you some.”

Down in the living room, playing with Nonna and me, you offered both of us your coveted Paw Patrol stickers just ’cause you like us (I think). 

At the farmer’s market, there was a local artist playing a ukulele and singing. At one point, a little girl had joined her for a halting rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” and you were intrigued. When they finished, you said “Is it my turn?” and clambered up on stage, where you absolutely belted out the same song (way better than the little girl, IMHO) to the accompanying ukulele, one hand on the mic like a rockstar. 

I thought I might burst with pride. You are something else. 

Then it all went downhill. You spent the rest of the day acting like a lunatic and exhausting all of us. You even had a mini tantrum on our walk down Main Street on the way to the Island Creamery, of all places, because you didn’t want to hold anyone’s hand. 

Daddy and I think we have it figured out. Whenever you seem to be going through a cognitive leap, which seems to be the case with your behavior this morning, your behavior turns terrible. We think it has to do with cerebral connections being made or perhaps synapses firing. Whatever it is, it’s both awesome and terrible. 

Love you like crazy, kiddo,

Mamma