Strategic Cry

Dear Love Bug,

Sorry I haven’t written in a few days. I nearly died. 

Actually, I had Strep throat, but I felt like I was going to die. (And now I know where your fits of melodrama come from.) I’m praying neither you nor Daddy get it, but if you do, we know exactly what it is and how to treat it. Three doses of azithromyacin in, and I’m nearly good as new. 

There’s lots I could write about–especially Mother’s Day, when I was slowly fading but pulled it together enough to host brunch for your grandparents but not enough to really spend any quality time with you, which makes me sad. Or your recent love affair with Matchbox cars, now that you’ve inherited easily 100 from Daddy’s collection (and some of those actually started out as your Great Uncle Paul’s). You like to take them outside, now that the weather has turned nice again, and line them up on the sidewalk and then race them down to see how fast they’ll go. That makes me happy. 

But I think what I want to write to you about today is how you’ve mastered the art of the strategic cry. After your bath, you were standing stark naked in the kitchen and asked if you could watch TV. I said no, it had gotten late, and you instantly devolved into a wailing mess. Real tears and everything. And I felt terrible for you but also was cognizant of the scene, in which (again) you were standing absolutely naked in the kitchen, sobbing over and over again about how you wanted to watch Paw Patrol. And then you looked me straight in the eye, gave a really impressive moan, and waddled over, threw your arms around my legs and buried your face in my thighs. 

Oh goodness. You sure know how to get me. 

I called you a Drama King, and maybe you have a future in theater (but please no nudity). 

Love you like crazy like crazy, kiddo,