kind

22 months on the dot

It’s been a rough month for the world, kiddo. I read a tweet recently that went something along the lines of, “Let’s unplug 2016, wait 10 seconds and plug it back in.” It’s worth a shot …

We’ve lost some brilliant minds this year. But worse, we’ve lost a lot of average people. For no reason. Senselessly. Absurdly. Terrifyingly. Since my last post, just about 50 people were killed during our country’s worst mass shooting in history.

Yesterday, the United Kingdom voted to leave the European Union in a jaw-dropping decision that you’ll probably read about in your history textbooks as “Brexit,” leading many voters to wish they’d acted differently in a response now dubbed “regrexit.”

The two incidents are completely unrelated until you look under the surface, and then you realize that they were most likely driven by similar rotten motivations related to intolerance. And now we’ve got a presidential election looming that is being underpinned by the same nasty motives.

And Daddy and I are depressed and frustrated, and we’re thinking about moving to Malta if Trump is elected. (It’s got a 99.5 percent literacy rate! It’s a gorgeous Mediterranean island! They speak English and Italian!) I spent some time feeling sad and a little guilty about bringing you into this world that’s seeming pretty dismal lately. I wondered if I was selfish, wanting you so badly because, well, I wanted you rather than thinking about what I might be subjecting you to. But then I realized that’s shortsighted because you–and your generation–can shape the world if we teach you well.

So we’ve started talking about values. I’m sure it’s all going right over that nascently curly little head of yours, but if we talk about it enough–and model the right behaviors–I know you’ll catch on. We’ve been talking about tolerance. But not just tolerance, no, that’s not right. It’s not tolerance; it’s respect for all humans and embracing others. It’s living and letting live and acting on what you believe is right. It’s sticking up for people even when no one else will because you know that it’s what you’d want if you were in that situation. It’s love.

You were born with a completely open heart, and it’s our job to make sure it never builds up walls and that it never believes that some people are more deserving than others. Daddy and I have a sticker that we got in Key West. “We are all created equal members of one human family,” it says. That’s what we’re working hard to make sure you grow up to believe.

In the meantime, we’ve been dealing with some “terrible twos” behavior, although I’m not sure that it’s so much “terrible twos” as it is just normal human development. (I am fascinated by this, and I don’t understand why it happens if you’re not seeing the behavior modeled.) For a while there, you were hitting, biting and pushing people. Daddy and I were  your favorite victims, although you’ve lashed out a few times at Nonna, and I’ve even seen you hit other kids–especially E, a little girl about six months younger than you–at daycare.

We put the kibosh on this immediately through a variety of strategies, and (somewhat surprisingly) you seem to be moving beyond those behaviors. But what’s strange is that instead of acting on these behaviors, you now express your anger/frustration/irritation by saying what I think you’d like to do. You’ll get mad and say “push!” and throw a hand up, palm out, like you’re pushing someone away. Or you’ll say “hit!” or “bite!” but you won’t actually go through with the behavior. So we’ve been responding calmly, since you’re not acting violently, and saying “No, Ethan, you don’t hit/bite/push. Why are you saying that? What’s bothering you?” Usually, it’s fleeting, and you’ll already have moved on to something else, but sometimes you’re able to express to us what the source of your negative feelings is, and I’m encouraged that we’re getting through.

You’ve got a pretty great group of role models, bud, and I hope you learn from them. Daddy and me, Nonna and Opa, Mimi and Beebee, Gina–we’re all working hard to make sure you grow up to lead a life motivated by love. And you are (generally) so sweet, so big hearted and loving. Just this morning, I caught you (via the video monitor) hugging your stuffed friends, one after the other, and my heart just about burst into a million pieces. A little bit later, I thanked you for helping me do something, and you said, “Eefan is kind.” Kind! Where in the world did you get that word? But without missing a beat (and because I jump on any opportunity to reinforce positive behavior), I said, “You are kind.” And I hope the world is kind to you in return.

In the meantime, lest this be a total downer of a post, here are some photos from the awesome, amazing week we spent at the beach (our beloved Chincoteague, Virginia) with Nonna and Opa. You were SO in your element, running on the beach, digging with your shovels, transporting water in your pails for no other reason than to transport water, jumping in the waves with Daddy and me, stomping on the sand castles Opa so patiently continued to build for you, chasing seagulls and ducks, collecting shells with Nonna, taking a ride in a bike trailer around the Wildlife Loop, racing around the top of the Assateague lighthouse, eating seafood like it’s going out of style and totally, completely, face-first indulging in the best homemade ice cream there is. You took a whole week away from home totally in stride, and we can’t wait for next year.

May this next trip around the sun engender kindness in everyone …

leaps and bounds

21 months

The hubbub in the house has died down post-Memorial Day cookout. The dishwasher’s running. The living room has been picked up. Food’s put away. My tummy and my heart are full. There’s something about having a lot of activity in the house that makes me feel satisfied, and the calm that follows it is even more satisfying.

You’re fast asleep–for hours already. I still wonder what you dream about–if you can remember the details of your day enough to recall them in sleep–and maybe the multitude of adventures we had this weekend are shaping your night thoughts. I’m glad we had the extra day off; without it, I would’ve been completely wiped out.

Between the outdoor time in the stifling heat, the pool, the sprinkler, the birthday party, the multiple meals out, the playground, the gardening and everything else, you’re exhausted–and so am I. You took a few marathon naps this weekend, and you’ve been crashing well before 8. This intensive time with you has felt like a luxury; our weekends are usually so rushed, trying to squeeze everything (chores, errands, play time) into two days. Having an extra day makes all the difference. Does anyone want to offer me a four-day-a-week job?!

We’re gearing up for more uninterrupted family time, as we’re off to the beach–for a full week this year!–with Nonna and Opa on Saturday. That gives us four short days to get everything prepped, packed and crammed into the car. And this after we packed and unpacked just a couple of weeks ago for a trip up to Massachusetts to visit Uncle Eddie, Aunt Lala and Hazel.

What a treat for you that was: You chased their chickens and collected their eggs; you rode in a wagon that Uncle Eddie pulled with his tractor; you had room to do nothing but run (through the sprinkler, even–a first!) on their huge property;  you had a built-in older sister to entertain you (I’ve decided that rent-an-older-sibling is a fantastic business idea); you ate delicious homemade ice cream and played on a couple of playgrounds; you hiked along the Mill River. It felt so good to breathe that fresh mountain air and to bask in having nothing in particular to do and nowhere especially to be. You had a ball, and Daddy and I had a chance to be grown-ups with our grown-up friends, which we think is important for our senses of identity and our happiness.

In getting to and from Massachusetts, you took your fifth and sixth flights, respectively. We managed to do it pretty cheaply (and they were easy-peasy, less-than-one-hour flights) with you flying as a lap infant, and it marked the last time we’ll be able to take advantage of that option. Next time we fly, we’ll be paying for a seat for you because you’ll be TWO. That happened extraordinarily quickly.

And as we enter the last quarter of a year leading up to that milestone, you’re growing by leaps and bounds. I’m fairly certain you’re stretching in your sleep; each day, you seem taller and more little boyish. We caught you with your leg slung over the top rail of your crib in attempt to escape, so we lowered it yet again–and this is the final frontier, the lowest setting. Next stop: toddler bed.

You’re getting excellent practice at climbing (and also running, jumping, galloping, hanging, crawling and shimmying) at the playground, where you spend most of your days (natch) now that the 40-Day Flood has ended and summer seems to be here to stay. And you work that playground like a boss. You’re up and down stairs and ladders and all other climbing implements effortlessly, and the other day–straight outta nowhere–you walked up to the slide, sat down, turned yourself around and went down backwards and on your stomach. What?! You were down and up again before I could figure out what had just happened. You’re also starting to make contact when kicking balls, your throwing arm ain’t half bad and you’re maybe (kinda) starting to figure out how to make significant forward progress on your riding toys and in your Cozy Coupe (as opposed to just pushing yourself backwards).

Other recent interests include coloring with crayons (rather than eating them, although you sneak an occasional waxy bite, still, here and there); playing with stickers; and preparing elaborate spreads of fake food and then demanding that we eat them. “Sit,” you say, pointing to the pouf in the living room. “Eat.” And you shove a wooden lemon toward us or, if we’re lucky, some “bread” that you’ve “buttered.”

Your language skills continue to floor us.

We’ve caught you responding to the TV when the characters–presumably either in Elmo, Super WHY! or Yo Gabba Gabba, the shows you request regularly–address the audience with a question. “What’s your name?” they ask. You’re very emphatic: “Ethan!”

You speak in full sentences, although much of it only you can understand, especially when you get going fast. Some of your latest gems include:

“Ethan push button and watch Nemo on the iPad.”

“Mamma, flip-flops hurting Ethan’s feet.”

“There’s a hole in the bucket” followed by insane laughter.

And–first words uttered upon waking up in the morning–“I need chocolate cake.” (You are my son!) This has led to some bargaining when I respond by saying there’s no chocolate cake. “Cookies?” “Nope.” “Goldfish?”

You talk so much, in fact, that we’ve realized we’ve gotten to the point that every parent, I imagine, gets to eventually: We respond exasperatedly to the endless “Mamma? Mamma? Mamma?” or “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?” with a “Yes, Ethan, WHAT?”

I have to remind myself that you talking all the time is awesome because you’re able to express yourself using words and not by screaming or crying.

And that, Love Bug, is something to celebrate.

self-aware

20 months

We’ve rounded the corner into the final third of your second year. This seems momentous, for some reason–more momentous even than hitting a  year and a half–and all of a sudden you seem to have sprouted into a little boy. You’re less roly poly and much more dexterous, your hair is fuller, your little face is becoming more defined. You just don’t quite look like a baby anymore.

And you know who you are: you’re “Eefan.” You refer to yourself nearly constantly in the third person, and you narrate your own life. “Eefan does X,” you say, or “Eefan doing Y.” Last week, Daddy texted me a conversation you had with him one morning after I’d left the house:

Daddy: Are you ready?
You: No.
Daddy: Time to go to Ms. Gina’s.
You: Eefan reading.

You point to yourself in pictures and cheerily call out your own name. If we ask you to whom something belongs, you’ll say “Eefan’s ball” or “Eefan’s book,” complete with the possessive S! You also talk to yourself a lot, especially in the mornings before I come into your room to pluck you from your crib or at night when you’re lulling yourself to sleep. Eefan is clearly your best friend, and I think that’s great.

Your self-awareness has expanded to your physical well-being, and your vocabulary is now allowing you to tell us if something’s bothering you. You’re beginning to use the word “hurt,” and you’re pretty good with identifying various body parts. Last week–I remember it was Tuesday morning–you woke up crying, which is unusual. Early in our morning routine, you said “boo boo kitty,” letting us know that something hurt. (You use this to mean “boo boo” rather than the cat-shaped ice pack we use when you have a boo boo.) “Where does it hurt?” I asked. You said, “belly.” I was surprised; I hadn’t actually ever heard you use that term before. I thought maybe you were hungry, so we offered you your usual cup of milk and Cheerios. You chugged the milk and left the Cheerios–a bit unusual but nothing we thought much about.

Later, as I was on my way to the dentist, I got a call from Daddy. You’d thrown up all over the back seat of his car on your way to daycare. I took a sick day and spent the day with you. You never threw up again, and by the time you woke up from a marathon nap, you seemed more or less back to normal. Seventy-two hours later, the stomach bug hit me, and by the time I was recovering after a full day spent completely helpless in the face of the most violent digestive illness I’ve ever experienced, Daddy got it. Repeat. All I could think was how thankful I was that Daddy and I hadn’t both gotten it at the same time; it was so debilitating, there was no way we’d have been able to take care of you. But by Sunday morning, we’d both bounced back to functioning if not normal.

And so that milestone, too, had passed: We got our first family stomach flu–not the last, I’m sure–and lived to tell the tale (although it was touch and go there for a while).

The milestones are coming nearly faster than I keep track of. On Monday, your 20th monthday on the dot, you tried out your new nap mat at daycare for the first time and took to it beautifully: no fussing, no rolling about, nothing. Apparently, you simply crawled in, put your head on the pillow and went to sleep. So now you’re napping on the floor like the big kids and you never even looked back at your Pack N Play.

Part of me is just a smidge sad, just slightly grieving the baby that was, the baby who needed me desperately. You’re so independent now, so aware of who you are and what you want; lately, that’s Daddy more than me (another blog post to come on that, perhaps), pancakes, cookies, tunnels, Elmo, downstairs and bubbles. Every once in a while, a book is thrown in there, too.

I’m so very, very proud of the little boy you’re becoming. But it’s also OK if Eefan wants to climb into my lap and be a baby for a little bit longer.

  
  
  
  
  

aye yuv yoo

19 months

I can only imagine you’ve gone through some major cognitive leap recently. Your understanding of the world and how it works grows exponentially on a daily basis, and your ability to express yourself is mesmerizing.

Daddy and I like to play a game with you where we ask you who says what. It goes like this:

“What does the cow say?” we ask.
“Moo,” you say.

“What does the sheep say?”
“Baa.”

“What does the duck say?”
“Quack quack.”

The other day, Daddy asked you what Opa says. At one point when you were very young, Opa started saying “heh heh” to you, and you’d say it back. In fact, before you learned to say “Opa” you called him “Heh Heh.”

So when Daddy asked you what Opa says, you responded “heh heh.” Not surprising.

Then Daddy mixed it up a bit and said, “What does Daddy say?”

You responded: “Aye yuv yoo.” We were floored.

Daddy then asked, “What does Mamma say?” And you answered the same way: “Aye yuv yoo.”

My heart nearly burst from the joy! I think maybe we’re doing something right? (Thank goodness you didn’t say “Ethan, no!” which you may hear nearly as frequently as “I love you.” Toddlerhood is in full swing.)

You’ve just become much more affectionate, coming to us for hugs and cuddles, running up to us (Daddy especially) and throwing your arms around our legs while burying your face in a thigh, and giving kisses when requested. You make a “mwah” noise when  you do it, too, which just about kills me. And it’s not just for us! You kiss photos of people like your grandparents, and you kiss yourself in the mirror. You’ve also become lovey-dovey with your favorite toys, giving Simba, Heehee (your blankie), Lamby (a relatively new fave) and Max kisses just because. But it doesn’t stop there; you have your toys kiss each other, going “mwah mwah” as they do. This holds true for your Disney characters and rubber duckies, puzzle pieces, Little People and anything with a mouth, really. I love that you do this, and I love that you’re kissed so often it seems natural to you to make your toys give kisses, too.

Lest you read this at some point in the future and think you were the most perfectly charming toddler ever, let me assure you that all of this cerebral development has come with its fair share of downsides. You’ve become majorly, heels-dug-in willful, insistently demanding and, quite frankly, pretty bossy. “Daddy, fix it.” “Mamma, hold it.” Or, even more frequently: “Cookies!” or “Pancakes!” Over and over and over. You’ve also recently begun saying “I want,” which allows for some impressive sentence construction: “I want s’more mango.” “I wanna play.” If you don’t get what you want, you will often throw stuff, push things over, swing your arms around to hit something or completely melt down into a mini-tantrum. Not your finer side.

You’ve also started waking up in the middle of the night again. It’s not every night, but it’s more often than not, and it’s always weirdly in the 2 a.m. hour. I thought it might be the 18(ish)-month sleep regression, but tonight I spotted that first lower molar breaking through your raw, angry gum, and I have a feeling that’s the culprit. We’ve been plying you with Hyland’s Teething Tablets, which generally help you drift back to sleep pretty quickly.

The teething doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite, though. You must be going through a growth spurt. How else can I explain the two-hot-dog lunch? Or the entire-whole-banana-plus-blackberries dessert? Tonight, you kept asking for “more broccoli” so I’m not complaining. I’m thrilled you’re eating as well as you are, especially after a period of extreme pickiness that seemed to accompany your most recent illness (and amoxicillin treatment). We thought it was just that you weren’t feeling well, but one night you kept saying “that” and pointing to your plate. We’d given you everything on it, and you’d turned your nose up to all of it. Somehow, we realized you were talking about the plate itself. We put it on your tray and handed you your fork and spoon, and you left not a crumb. Apparently, you were on a hunger strike because we were still portioning out your food rather than allowing you to eat like a big boy off your plate.

Aye yuv yoo, Munchkin.


  
  
  
  
 

pretty mamma

18 months

One of my favorite of our recent exchanges, which are becoming more like mini conversations as you begin to string words together into half sentences:

I had taken you upstairs after dinner to brush your teeth, and you spotted my comb on the vanity counter.

You: “Hold it, hold it.” That’s your way of saying you’d like something, stat.

I grabbed the comb for you, and you ran it through your hair a couple of times. Then you ran it through mine a few times, took a good look at your handiwork and stated, “Pretty Mamma.”

{melt}

Me: “Awww, thank you, Sweet Pea.”

You: “Welcome.”

You’ve become very polite: You say “welcome” any time one of us says thank you. You also say “welcome” when you mean “thank you,” but the sentiment is there. We’re very proud of this new habit of yours. You’re also pretty good at remembering to say “peas” if you really, really want something.

Some other recent things that have absolutely floored me:

  • You can count to 20 (skipping a few numbers here and there, but still).
  • When you see the framed postcards of Verona as we’re traversing the stairwell, you say “Nonno’s.” I have no idea how you know this. It’s like you’re a sorcerer.
  • You can differentiate shapes and colors, and you’re getting to be a whiz at puzzles and shape sorting.
  • And this one made laugh: Tonight, we were looking at a board book about the beach, and I taught you “bathing suit.” You interpreted this as “Beebee’s soup.” Haha! Not quite the same thing.

You’re just getting over your nth illness of the calendar year, and we’re not even through March. This time, you were diagnosed with a sinus infection and pinkeye (shortly after I recovered from the same strange, goopy combination), and at least we’ve been able to treat them with actual effective medicines. The past few times it’s been “just another virus” and we’ve all had to suffer through it.

This past weekend, before the goop hit a fever pitch, you joined me at the salon for your first haircut. You sat on my lap, and Daddy distracted you with iPhone videos and cookies while Connie, my hairstylist, transformed your mullet–adorable as it may have been on you–into a decent style with a shape. You tolerated it until the clippers came out, and then you went ninja on her (also reserved for nail trimming and anti-pinkeye eye drop application). She maybe cut the front a bit too short for my taste, but it’ll grow back quickly, I know. Already, it looks way thicker to me. I’d like to avoid cutting your hair too frequently because I think toddlers with Beatles-esque mops are the cutest ever.

This weekend, we’ll be celebrating 19 months of YOU (along with 37–eek!–years of ME) and also bunnies and spring. We’re not really doing Easter this year, since Mimi’s working, so instead we’re going to go hunt eggs on a farm. The weather’s going to be sunny and spring like, and all of a sudden the world seems pretty again.

  
  
  
  
  

slippery slopes

18 months

A year and a half in and deep, deep in the toddler weeds. I love this age except for when you’re exerting your healthy will (pretty much always) to the point of frustrating all three of us.

I have come to the realization that I’m not a baby person, meaning I’m not a baby-baby person. I’m not nostalgic for your infancy nor do I feel driven to have another baby so I can relive those newborn months that pass so quickly. I mean, I loved the cuddles. I loved (mostly) that you stayed where I put you. I loved that you needed me desperately. But the rest of it didn’t necessarily enthrall me.

What I love now is that you are you. You’ve become your own person with your own preferences and desires; you know what you like and what you don’t, and you can express that. I love that we can play, sing and dance together. I love that you can make believe, and you take me with you. I love that I can ask you questions and you respond. And I love that every day, you surprise me with something new that you can say or do.

You’re beginning to string words together into short sentences, and you’re able to use words and phrases absolutely appropriately. You’ve learned that if you say please (“peas”), you get what you want much more quickly. You’ve recently started saying “you’re welcome” when we say “thank you.” You do funny things like mimic Darth Vader and say “pew pew pew” (as in what a shooting laser sounds like) whenever you pick up any sort of stick. You’re getting really good at certain gross-motor things like getting on and off your push toys, walking up and down stairs, balancing precariously on the arm of your armchair (I wish you wouldn’t do that) and going down slides by yourself.

You’re also terribly possessive, incredibly stubborn and given to bursting into tears at the slightest hint of the word “no.” If we try to take something away from you that you shouldn’t have, it’s like your world is coming to an end. Daddy read to me tonight from the American Academy of Pediatrics‘ Caring for Your Baby and Young Child about toddler behavior, and it could have been written about you: Doesn’t play well with others. Doesn’t share. Offers things to others only to snatch them back. It said we shouldn’t expect anything different.

And that’s the fine line we’ve been walking. We feel like we have to set boundaries and to begin teaching you what’s right and wrong. But sometimes we feel like we’re saying “no” more than anything else. And if you’re incapable–like actually cognitively incapable–of processing the limits we’re setting, how do we even begin? Sometimes, I’ll admit, I give you a cookie just to keep you from harassing me. And that is not the only one of my parenting vices.

I try to remind myself, during these particularly trying moments, that it’s really, really hard to be a toddler. You’re not in control of anything: not your emotions, not your environment, not your schedule, not what you eat or who you play with or where you go. You can express yourself only in limited terms. (I think about how I felt when I first moved to Italy and couldn’t really communicate with people on any sort of adult level–frustrating!) Sometimes, it’s enough to make you cry. I get that.

So we’ll continue to bumble through this, which is, I suppose, what everyone does, perhaps some more gracefully than others. I’m going to work really hard on not getting frustrated, and I hope you can, too.

This is all compounded, of course, when you’re not feeling well. And we’ve all had some sort of upper-respiratory/sinus infection for what seems like months. You were out of daycare all last week because you were running a consistently high fever (up to 104!), and Daddy and I were struggling with all sorts of congestion and other nasty cold symptoms. Finally, finally, we were all feeling better this weekend only for me to come down with a case of pinkeye (of all things!). I’m terrorized by the idea of you getting it, too. I’ve been avoiding snuggles to keep you healthy, and it makes me sad. Also, you’re teething–one of those first molars on the top–and it’s making you cranky.

But through it all, we’ve been having some pretty exceptional adventures together, the kind that are so awesome they immediately become a memory. Two weekends ago, we went up to State College to be with your Aunt Becky and Uncle Greg, cousin Olivia and Mimi and Beebee. We had so much fun! On Sunday, Daddy, Beebee and I hauled you up to Tussey Mountain and got you on skis for the first time for a whopping 30 seconds. The rest of the time you played in the snow and giddily watched Daddy ride the ski lift. It made me so excited for winters to come when (hopefully) we can all hit the slopes together, slippery as they may be.


  
  
  
  

just one

17 months

You’re racing fast toward a year and a half, and I can barely keep up with your frenetic development. Just yesterday, I said, “He’s not really running yet,” and today, you took off running (or what running looks like on those little toddler legs of yours) across a doctor’s office waiting room. I applaud your effort to contradict me.

Last week in the aftermath of our historic blizzard, we hauled you up to the top of the hill at the middle school so you could sled down it over and over again with Daddy and me taking turns running with you in the 30 inches that Jonas dumped on us 10 days ago or so. You giggled the whole way down. You kept saying “choo choo,” and we couldn’t figure out if you were calling the sled a choo choo or if you were telling us you wanted to go home and play with your train set, of which you’ve recently become a huge fan. But each time we arrived at the bottom of the hill, we’d ask “More?” and you’d say “More.” So we kept at it. Eventually, another family arrived with a toboggan and a couple of little boys. One was crawling straight down the hill. We got into conversation as we often do with other parents of little kids that wind up sharing space with you. The baby had just turned a year last Friday. The older kid was two and a half. The mom said they were 17 months apart. 17 months! That’s like if I were giving birth to another baby right this minute. I can’t even imagine.

Which is why we’ve decided we’re good with just one: just you. There are a lot of reasons for this, and it’s actually, strangely, kind of a relief to come to this conclusion. But we’re sure: Our little tribe feels quite complete as a trio.

I don’t at all intend this to be disparaging of those who have more than one child; to the contrary, I’m in awe of parents who manage with more than one. Actually, I’m in awe of parents, period. Especially the ones (and there are a lot of them in our life) who make it look effortless. It is by no means effortless on my part; it is effort-full. So I’ll call that Reason No. 1 that we’re good with one:

We are managing. Finally. After many, many, many months of kind of just barely scraping by. We feel like we’ve got this. We’ve succeeded if not conquered. We’re finally having fun! We’ve got an awesome schedule that we can pretty much bank on. We feel like normal humans again. And we’re just reluctant to start all of it over again from scratch. (Unlike many people, I wasn’t in love with the newborn stage. You were cute–the cutest!–and super cuddly, but this, this, is what I’ve been living for. I love toddler you! I love how you respond to us and play with us and have a personality and an opinion. And we can do stuff together. It’s the best.)

We like the idea of being able to focus solely on you. You’ve got our full attention and our full resources. We can both be there to support you, pick you up, cheer you on, help you out and everything else we need and want to do with you. And we can do it together, Daddy and me, at the same time. We don’t need to divide and conquer. And neither of us will ever miss any of your classes, games, recitals, performances or other shining moments because we’re doing the same for a sibling of yours.

We want and need a bigger house, which means a bigger mortgage. And daycare is expensive as all get-out. That’s with just one.

We love to travel, and we want to share our love of travel with you. Traveling is much more doable with just you, from both a resources and a logistics perspective.

Right now, you’re outnumbered. We often (more often than we’d care to admit) need four hands to wrangle you.

Everything we do, we do for you. Period. You are our raison d’etre. I don’t want you to have to share that (spoken like a true only child). And, while I know this is silly and completely irrational, I don’t know that I could love any other child as much as I love you.

You fit nicely into my Prius. And I will never need a minivan.

I could keep going, but I think you get the gist. Just one suits Daddy and me. I hope and pray, though, that it suits you, too. That you won’t feel like you’re missing something from your life.

So the answer from here on out to all those who will, inevitably, ask if or, worse, when we’re having a second child is: Nope. We’re good. Entirely complete just the way we are–with just you.