Letter to Swee'pea: 28 months

Dear Swee'pea:

A week and a day ago you turned 28 months. It's been a crazy week and a half, during which time we've bought a new house and put our current house on the market. I don't think you understand all this, of course, but when we went through the new house, you ran all over it, and when I asked you if you liked it, you replied with an enthusiastic, "YEAH!"




I suppose that means that you won't have any memory of this house, which is ok I guess, though a little sad. You weren't born in this house, although we had everything ready in case we decided to go with a home birth. We did bring you here when you were three days old though, after a harrowing drive home and a traumatic diaper change, I swear you looked around our living room and thought, "Ahh. I'm home now. I know this place," and I thought that was pretty amazing. I've heard that babies in utero can sense the smells of the mother's world through the amniotic fluid.

We cleaned up the whole house over the last week, and did the most dramatic work while you were at daycare one day. When you came home, our real estate agent met us here, and you took her around the house. When you entered your clean room and saw your bed made, probably for the first time ever, you sat on it very proudly and proclaimed, "My bed!" It seems like you say everything with an exclamation mark these days. Speaking of which, you've developed a most annoying habit at mealtimes. You play and don't eat while your dad and I eat, and then when we're done and ready to do something else, you exclaim, "I'M NOT ALL DONE!" (No my aw dah!) But then you just sit there, still not eating, and when we try to prod you into eating or leaving the table you bellow again, "I'M NOT ALL DONE!!!" I've tried to explain that if you're not eating, that means you ARE all done, but you're not having any truck with that. I suppose it's your way of exerting control over mealtimes.


(These jeans had a very small rip in the knee until you decided to expand it, er, up your thigh. What are you, 16???)

Right now, your dad is putting you to bed and I can hear you talking about the thunder rumbling around us. "NuhNO, nuhno dah dye." (Thunder, thunder's outside.) Our first thunderstorm this year took place while I was at belly dance and your dad was putting you to bed. Apparently you were scared and held onto your dad very, very tightly. Since then, I've made sure to put on a happy face when thunder comes and I tell you it's exciting and it makes lots of noise. You seem less concerned about it now.

The other day, a thunderstorm rolled over us in the morning, minutes before our alarm was set to go off. It was actually quite nice. Instead of the blazing morning sun, it was soft overcast light that came in our windows, and instead of your usual, "Up! Up, Mama!" (Bah, bah mama!) and bouncing out of bed, we cuddled and talked and listened to the lazy thunder. It was so energizing to lay there together, our whole family right there in that comfy, comfy bed.

Your imagination is really growing and you crack us up all the time. One day you said grandpa was here. And when I asked where, you pointed to a little dot on a book, and said "Right there!" (Dye doh) and you picked poor, miniature, invisible to the naked eye grandpa up in your hand, and held him out to me like he was one of your pretend snacks that you're always cooking. The snacks that you tease us with holding your pots out all inviting-like but when we reach in for a taste, you yell, "NOT READY YET!" while you wear an expression of shock and horror.

This morning, you said your tractor had a flat tire and you had to fix it, so you took a cup and held it to the tire and made a buzzing sound just like you hear at a mechanic's and we were so amazed and surprised, wondering where did you get that from? It's a little scary the things you pick up on sometimes.

After dinner, we usually go for a walk to the park. We start in the stroller and let you run on the soccer fields, where you say all the chalk lines are choo choo trains. I think you're actually saying that the lines are train tracks and you're the choo choo train because you run along the lines over across the lines, yelling, "Choo choo train!" On the way home, you always ask to get out of the stroller and walk, and we make you wait until we turn the corner onto our street, at which you demand loudly, "MY WALK! MY WALK!" until we let you out to walk the rest of the way.

Tonight at dinner, after the first round of "NO MY AW DAH!" and before our walk, a sudden loud toot reverberated from your chair. You burst out laughing and so did we. Your mirth was hilarious. And then came the punchline: "No my toot. Mommy tooted!"

"Oh," said your father between gales of laughter. "You're definitely one of your mom's family." (Your grandpa and uncle are well known for their flatulence and subsequent denials.)

Lately, when I'm putting you to bed, you always want more books than I have the energy to read. So I've started to tell you stories about a girl named Kate because then I can close my eyes. You love them. I tell you about how she rode horses, and I tell you about some of the horses, and I tell you about her dog, Merlin (although I haven't yet told you about a horse kicked him in the head or how he got hit by a car and survived it all), and life on the farm. I figured you just thought Kate was a neat kid, but you've very quickly figured out it's me. When I told you about she grew up and had a baby boy named Ezra, you knew I was talking about you, and you pointed to me and said, "Kate!" (Day!) Now when I put you to bed you ask for stories about her, saying, "Day! Day!" The only way I appease you is to say I'm thinking of a story and I need quiet until I think of one. Many times you fall asleep before I think of another one.

You seem to love music, or at least you love the tape player that's at your level. You know how to insert and remove tapes and press play. Then when the music comes on you start to groove. You bounce on your knees. You move your firsts around in circles like you're stirring the pot, or up and down like you're mashing potatoes. You twist your hips and move your arms up and twist your hands like I do when I'm belly dancing. It's really cute.

Today is Father's Day, and your daycare helped you make him a sexist card and a placemat with your footprints on it. He loved it all, even though he has no interest in most of the activities mentioned on the card (things like golf and baseball and hockey). The last month has been a lot of fun with the mild evenings and gorgeous days. I know your dad is loving being able to kick the soccer ball around with you, and I love the way you watch him so closely and mimic, in your own clumsy way, his ball handling.

It seems like we can't help but project. When you're pretending to cook, we think you're going to be a chef. When you're kicking the ball, you'll be a soccer star. When you recognize the letter E, we peg you for a writer like your grandpa. When you bring home paintings or draw, your use of colour convinces us you will be an artist. Today, when you and I were dancing in the kitchen, I wondered if you'd be a dancer. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing to do this, to put the world at your feet. But it's irresistible, and a product of the joy and excitement we feel at every single thing you do, whether it's peeing on the potty -- which you did once -- or saying you're poopy, or kicking a ball.



Love Always and Forever,
Mum