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Moments before your first haircut at nearly 2.5 years old. |
I've been raised to believe that life and love, like stories and meals, are meant to be shared. Share our blessings we will, though I well up when I imagine you learning to do without me any more than you already do. So, for now, I think of you and I hold you closer, I spoil you and indulge you at bedtime, I kiss and rock and nuzzle you until you beg me to let go.
To capture you, to freeze you, exactly as you are right now, when you have captured my attention perhaps more than ever, I've written this:
Your daddy smiles and says he knows you'll have a good life. He tells me not to worry about the fears I verbalize (about peer pressure and weird drugs and other things I have years to worry about), because you'll be so confident and because so many people love you.
You are headstrong. You've never been "easy." You're opinionated and unpredictable. You fight back. You protest. And I'll know you'll always be this way (because you're related to me).
You have developed some small fears recently. In a way, I appreciate them because they lead you to my arms and make you seem a little vunerable, 2-year-old that you are.
You're a parrot. We like to teach you to say funny things. When you're particularly chatty, your daddy yells to me, "What should I teach him to say?" This week we worked on "Look at me in my eyeball," from that movie Along Came Polly. We should probably focus in on your ABCs and 123s, which you hate, and mangle. After a couple passes through a new book, you finish nearly every sentence for me.
You're affectionate. You hug and kiss easily when in the mood. You hug and kiss your teachers goodbye each day. At bedtime, you turn my head toward your daddy's and say "Mommy Daddy," indicating that you want us to kiss, too.
You are my favorite part of every day. Always. You're your father's, too.
You are more okay without me than I am without you.
You have the world's cutest tushie.
You are very proud of yourself. When you do something well, you encourage yourself saying "I do a great job!" and "Hooray, Nicky!"
You don't eat much, and you don't let my anxieties related to this affect your decisions.
You hate calling it a day, but you sleep like a little log. Then you rise early, so very, very early.
You're my big helper. You help take out the recycling and feed Boda, you give Bo-bo treats every morning, and put away your toys. You love to throw things in the trash and dirty laundry.
You respect the serious rules (don't touch the fire, don't go downstairs without me), and completely disregard all the others. I secretly adore this.
You remind me that the perfection I so often strive for is overrated, and impossible.
You make me wonder at the depth of that excavation site, at the size of that train, at how very cool cranes and bulldozers and garbage trucks are.
You make me cheer when puzzle pieces fit together.
You make me listen to everything. You make me appreciate language and respect its authority.
You remind me of the importance of touch. How old will you be when you stop saying "Momma, I want to hold you?" I hope you never do. When, on the way out of daycare, I told you I hadn't gotten a kiss or a hug, you stamped your feet and said "Momma, we've got to stop!" Then you looked at me with kissy lips.
You remind me that sometimes we all just need to lie around and take 3-hour naps.
You remind me constantly that, damnit, it's stupid to do something you don't want to. Do we really need to go to Target/the Post Office/the grocery store? Usually the answer is no.
You're obsessed with anatomy. This morning you ran into the bathroom and yelled "Oh no, Momma! You have a pagina!" You assured me you do not have a pagina, you have a penis. This penis (always possesively referred to as "my penis") is the subject of great speculation; its safety is of utmost concern. You take a spin on your Retro Rocket and tell me "That hurt my penis!" I ask if it's okay. "Yes," you say. "My penis is okay." Whew.
You remind me of the importance of familiarity and routine. When we were on vacation, your daddy and I missed our routine. He said this a couple times. It's just one of the many things you brought to our lives that we didn't realize was missing.
You make me want to be better, kinder, more compassionate, more confident, and, above all, more patient with those I love. I fail all the time, almost hourly, but I keep trying for you.
You make me want to write to remember. I'm very thankful for that.
You're funny. Maybe the funniest person I've ever met. I can't count the number of times you make me laugh in a day, even on those days.
Tonight after dinner, you pointed to my belly and told my sister, your Aunt K-K, "That's my butter." I can't wait for you to meet your butter Jack. You're going to be the best, coolest big butter ever.
3 comments:
This was perhaps the best thing I've read in a long time. I can't wait to see Nicky and you and everyone really, but mostly Nicky. He will be an amazing big butter and you an amazing new mutter!
Love the bit about the penis and pagina. We've been talking a lot about our janina's around here. :)
Awesome picture! That was so great, your writing always amazes me. The penis part had me in tears, that is just too funny. My favorite though was what he said in the parking lot of daycare. WOW! Such an amazing little one.
Can't wait to see you next week. xoxo
Made me cry, you did. And this is the second time I read this. Thanks for sharing. And good luck with everything now! Not too long to go, right?
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