Letter to Swee'pea: 29 months

Dear Swee'pea:



Yesterday you turned 29 months old. This month, I've noticed you're becoming more fearful. You've always been pretty cautious, physically, but now you're afraid of some things, mostly bugs. First it was ants, at the cottage, then the other day a big fly near your potty (and you LOVE to sit on your potty!). You refuse to go anywhere near them and even if the bug goes away or we take it away, still you refuse to go back to that spot. It's strange because you're not afraid of mosquitoes and they're the ones whose bites you react so badly to. And you're not afraid of bumblebees either.



The other day when I picked you up from daycare, your friend Neemum and his mom were leaving at just the same moment. All the riding toys were still scattered around the play area so you and Neemum took advantage. He got on a little scooter; you hopped in a toy pick-up truck. He race as around in circles as fast as his little legs could push him, just missing crashes; you pushed yourself forward with a few slow steps then sat there and watched Neemum. His mom kept calling for him to watch out and stood there scared; I watched Neemum careen around and felt relief that you are so cautious. I almost never fear for your safety.


(This, of course, is the exception that proves the rule. The other night you climbed up on a bench behind a baseball diamond, and your mother of the year on the wrong side of the fence took a picture instead of running to ensure your safety. I'm not as cavalier as that makes me sound: your dad was there and I could see him running for you from the corner of my eye.)

We laughed about the differences between you two, and how you're really quite boring at the playground. You like to climb steps, mostly. Sometimes you pretend you're making a snack and you share nibbles with people. Your teacher laughed too and said that when they ask what you're doing when you're just sitting in your car, you yell, "I need gas!"

It's often hard to drag you away from daycare and the other day was no exception, especially with all those toys sitting out. The teachers were putting them away, and you immediately helped. You LOVE to help. I must confess to just a bit of parental pride when Neemum's mum cooed over you while you put things away, "Oh, you are SUCH a lovely boy! (And I like your speed.)"



You've been speaking in full sentences and coming out with some funny and interesting stuff. One day at a restaurant you pointed to a little girl, probably younger than you, maybe 18 months? And you said, "My noni day dat beebee mome!" (I want to take that baby home.) Your dad's response was not until you're 18. At another restaurant (um, yeah, we eat out once or twice a week) for lunch, I ordered you a kid's meal with egg, toast and potatoes. "No meat?" the server asked, and I said, "No, no meat." You eat meat at daycare and fish at home, but we don't eat red meat so I never order it.

"My DA mee!" you said. (I like meat!)

Oh. Well, ok then. So we ordered you some ham and you gobbled it up first. I love that you're getting more sophisticated in stating your preferences, and I like that you're able to have some control over some aspects of your life.

A few times you've announced either right before or right after your bath that you need to pee. You've said this before but rarely actually peed, so I just figured that to you, peeing just means sitting on the potty. But when you sat on the potty, you said, "Bee mummy dow! Bee mummy dow!" (Pee coming out!) And sure enough, when you stood, you'd peed. You were most pleased with yourself.



I think I'm going to stop these monthly letters. I keep seeing things I want to write about in the middle of the month but when the time comes around to write this letter, I've forgotten. And then I struggle to think of what to write to you about and I procrastinate and miss the 'deadline' and the letter I write never quite does justice to life with you. It feels like work, and I have enough of that in my life. Today, a friend showed me a quote in passing, and it really struck me, especially with this letter hanging over my head. It's by Annie Dillard from Write Till You Drop:

"One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water."



Don't worry, I'm still committed to writing you letters, but I will do it whenever the wish strikes me and not try to schedule it for a certain day of the month. I'm hoping that spontaneity will make for better, more authentic (and, ok, let's face it - easier!) letters.

Love Always and Forever,
Mum

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

Letter to Swee'pea: 27 months

Dear Swee'pea:
As of yesterday, you are 27 months old. This month I have finally begun counting your age in years instead of months (except of course for the previous sentence): two and a quarter. When you were first born, you changed every day and every week, but as you grow older, you grow slower, so now, it seems appropriate to count your age in quarter-years.



This month you have begun calling me Mommy instead of Mama. Your dad and I got into the habit of calling ourselves Mommy and Daddy when you were first born, but I never really liked being Mommy. When you started talking and called me Mama, I loved it. I much prefer being Mama instead of Mommy. Now, when I ask you to call me Mama instead you get a mischievious grin and repeat louder, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommymommymommy!" So I've given up asking. I hope it's just a phase and at some point you'll go back to Mama.



The cutest word you've learned this month is naked. You say it sort of like neh neh but my spelling doesn't do justice to the way you say it. There is a sharpness to the second n, like an almost silent t on the end of the first neh. Sometimes you pull your shirt up and point to your bare belly and say, "Neh neh." Others, you wait until you are truly naked to yell, "Neh neh!" and run into the bathroom. I've been trying to keep track of all your words for your speech therapist. I wonder if she'll think I'm taking liberties with your vocabulary, writing down ba for everything from car to ball to bath. I didn't bother recording the time ba meant crap (you said it several times right after something went wrong and I said, "Crap!"). I did, however, record boob and big poo, a bit sheepishly, and earlier today, Chinese (Dineeze), which you said while you were watching Big Bird Goes to China (still your only favourite dvd). [By the way, I wasn't blogging while you were watching tv, I was cooking dinner. And you started out by pulling your mini-recliner into the kitchen, sitting on it, and, as I started cutting up veg, declaring, "Deedee doe" (cooking show)].

Right now you keep coming up to me with your sunglasses held up to your eyes (the ones you have refused to actually wear, like with the band around your head) and proclaiming, "Daw! Daw!" (Dark). It's like I can't get enough of this.

Whereas last month you wanted to do everything yourself, this month you seem more interested in finding out what you can make other people do for you. You remain a study in contrasts, swinging from imperious bellows to courteous sweetness, from screaming meltdowns to octopus cuddles. You've become a bit more clingy recently, and now demand loudly, "Ba!" (Up!) with your arms stretched up and a grumpy, imperious look on your face. No please, no lift in your intonation that would make it more a request and less a command. As much as I love (almost) every opportunity to cuddle you, I do not care for that tone. So every time, I ask you what the magic word is and you say "Peez" as I put my hands under your armpits. But in other ways you are uncommonly courteous: if I wipe your nose, you say "saytu Mommy," and if I'm in your way, you always Memee Mommy as you squeeze by. If I offer you something you don't want, you say, "No peez," or "yeah peez," if you do.

You love your daycare. You were sick last week and had to stay home a couple of days, and every morning you cried to go to school. Of course, it's a good thing that you like it so much, but I couldn't help but doubt my parenting and wonder what we were doing wrong to make you dislike home so much. I don't think mother guilt ever goes away, no matter what choices we make. You've been getting more negative reports again lately. Things like having to be reminded to listen to the teachers, and now wanting to share anything, and, this week, even "testing the teachers to see what you can get away with." That last one actually made me a little happy to know that I'm not the only one you're testing.



Last weekend was your dad's birthday, and I made him a cake. You helped, sort of, by which I mean you stood on a chair and grabbed utensils and measuring cups while I mixed stuff in and told you what I was doing. It was your naptime when the cakes went into the oven, and you didn't understand the concept or necessity of baking before eating it. You screamed and wept and railed. You assumed your favourite yoga posture for meltdowns: on your knees, forehead to the floor. That you choose this posture for most tantrums instead of flat on your back seems to me like more evidence that you are an old soul.

You've discovered the question why. You say it with a y sound instead of a w sound, and you draw out the eye sound for a long time. I don't think I need to tell you this can get very tiresome, very quickly. But it's also kind of fun, thinking up answers to the things you ask why about.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to Cuba. I don't think very many two-year-olds (ok, two and a quartre-year-olds) can say they've been to South African and Cuba. I never set out to take you around the world as a baby and toddler, but it seems I'm just coming into myself as a traveller, like some kind of late adolescence, and so you come with us.



The first time we stepped onto the beach, you cried. You didn't want to walk on the sand. It felt too strange. But we coaxed you to try it, one step at a time, and eventually you became an old pro at walking barefoot on the beach. And you loved the little showers that washed the sand off. You liked the ocean too, but after the second day at the beach and the first sea-swim, you refused to go back to the beach. Your dad asked why, and I said, "Oh he never answers that question," because I've tried many times. Which is when you answered: too sunny. So we didn't go back to the beach.



I guess I underestimated the impact the changes of travel would have on you. I've always seen you as a fairly laid back person, like your dad, mostly because you never seemed to get overstimulated as a baby. But being two is different from being a baby. You did well, mostly. You slept great, you ate decently, you loved the buses, and did well on the plane ride home (not so much on the plane ride there, but who could blame you? We had to get up at 4 am so by the time we got on the plan, you were done. Thank goodness for the peole next to us who shared their portable dvd player with you long enough for you to finally drop off to mercifully silent sleep). It was more the transitions, when we'd stop doing something you enjoyed and move onto something else, and mealtimes. And you were a nightmare in the restaurants, screeching, refusing to sit in a high chair, then not staying in the big chairs and literally running all over the dining room. Other diners smiled indulgently at us while we took turns chasing you around, remembering their own days chasing toddlers.



There were lots of fun times too. On our last day there, we spent lots of time at the pool, which you loved. You splashed and stomped and ran from the "deedee doo" (little pool) to the "bee doo" (big pool), and never seemed to tire. Your dad and I braced ourselves for the screaming transition to getting ready for dinner, but you handled it like a star. We'd made sure you were decently fed in advance (I think many of your meltdowns are hunger-driven, which you come by honestly), and so you happily had a little wash of your feet in the foot-shower, and pointed at the koi in the little pond as you walked by. It was such a pleasure to follow behind your happy strides that I asked your dad, "Do these moments outweigh the bad ones? Is travelling with a two-year-old worth it?"


(You made a friend in Havana.)

He thought for a moment (like he always does; he's a very considered man, your dad), and said simply, "Yeah, I do."

I do too. I get a happy feeling of containment travelling as a trio in between the grumps and frustrations that probably come with all travels, solo or family.


(I think mosquito bites will be the story of your life in warm weather.)

Last night I had to work late and your dad picked you up from daycare. When I got home you came running over full tilt, yelling, "Mommy's back!" You gave me your usual ferocious running hug that I always have to brace myself for and that once or twice have knocked me on my ass - literally. I asked you how your day was (good) and what your favourite part of the day was. You thought for a moment: "Ummm..." and then, "This."

I was confused for a second. "This?" Then I got it. "Seeing me?"

"Yeah!"

Anything I can say about how that made me feel is a cliche: melting my heart, bursting my heart, that kind of thing. But they're interesting images if you think about it. Both have to do with changing states, breaking molecules apart and putting them back together, fundamentally transformed. And that's really what becoming your mother is all about.


(You're holding a baby coconut, in case you're wondering.)

Love Always and Forever,
Mum

Letter to Swee'pea: 26 months

Dear Swee'pea:

Today you are 26 months old. Your favourite phrase this month is "My did it!" which can mean either, "I did it!" if delivered with a huge smile and preceded by "Yay!" or "I do it!" if delivered petulantly with a deeply wounded look. If I don't heed your wishes to do something yourself, you protest loudly, "No, MY!" You insist on doing almost everything yourself these days, even things you can't actually do yet. It's exciting to watch you master new skills, like putting your clothes and pyjamas on yourself, and to see your pleasure in them, but it's also excruciatingly slow.



Mostly, I've been pretty good about relaxing and letting you do these things yourself, if I do say so myself (it helps that we're all sleeping better, although we still have some pretty annoyingly sleepless nights). But we've had a few standoffs when you weren't able to do what you wanted to, but as soon as I tried to lend an unotrusive hand, you'd start screaming and slapping my hand away. Last week when I picked you up from daycare, you insisted on strapping yourself into your carseat. This is something that your dad and I can barely do, and you most certainly do not have the dexterity or strength to push those clasps together. So you grabbed onto one of the clasps and held it uselessly for a minute until I tried to gently guide your hand to put it into the clippy thing. You were having precisely none of that. You screamed and arched and wept over my help. I tried to take advantage and strap you in when you weren't looking but you busted me and just fought harder. Finally, you settled down and grabbed a clasp again, and again I got sick of standing in the cold parking lot and tried to help you get the job done, and again you screamed. And screamed.

A few other parents arrived, went into the building, got their children dressed, came back out and put them (quietly) into their cars and left, and you were still screaming, and not strapped in. I realized I had to be the parent. I had no choice but to force the straps over you and into their clasps. I mean you were screaming nonstop by this point anyways. So I wrestled your loud and squirmy body and got those straps done up.

When we got home, you were ok until we got to the front door. You insisted on opening the door yourself. Now you'd been opening the inside door for a while (with a small helpful nudge from my finger), which pushes inward. But you hadn't before attempted the outside door, which opens out towards us. You were adamant though. So you reached up on your tippy-toes to grab the handle, and just managed to wrap your hand around it. Then you pulled, but you'd had to stand so close to the door to reach the handle that your boot was preventing it from moving even an inch. You pulled harder in your frustration, to no avail. When I pulled you a little away from the door, you screamed and wept: "No, Mama!" You tried again and again and again, all with the same unsuccessful result. That door would not budge with your boot in the way. Eventually I managed to convince you to let me open the outside door if you could open the inside door, and you agreed to that. (We make a lot of deals these days.)

Since then, you've figured out how to open the outside door and you seem to have agreed to let me take care of the carseat straps. As long as I let you climb up and down into the seat AND close the car door when you get out. Every time you close a door, you always pull on the handle and declare it locked: "Dot."

Despite the tantrums (and there have been a fair number - last week, two of your daycare reports said you had to be reminded to use your words when you're angry and frustrated instead of just screaming), you remain a lovely boy. When I bring your juice or put food down in front of you, you always say thank you (doodoo, Mama). You say excuse me (me me) when I'm in your way. You bring me imaginary tea and snacks. You're not so big on please, in fact you're prone to bellowing your demands requests for food so loudly (of which there are many -- you have a very hearty appetite) that I wonder if I'm living with an ogre. But then you'll run full tilt to me and give me a big hug and I see that you're all sweet, two-year-old boy.

I've been so sick in the last month that I've discovered you quite enjoy watching cooking shows with me when I'm too tired to cook supper and your dad's not home yet. I also quite enjoy the cuddle and opportunity just to chill. When the commercials come on, you call out for the other cooking show (nana deedee do). You love it when the chefs use blenders or mixers.



We went to Grandma and Grandpa's for Easter, and you were slow to warm up to the easter egg hunt. It was so cold and snowy that the village had to move its hunt, which is usually on the library lawn, into the church basement. Because there weren't really any hiding places in the gymnasium they just kept chucking the little foiled eggs across the floor. The other kids were crazy for chocolate, running everywhere. Every time you went near an egg, an older kid would swoop in and take it away without even a backwards glance. It was quite frenetic, but once we started sheltering the odd egg here and there from the other kids, you got into picking it up and putting it into your toque (we forgot to bring a basket for you - can you tell we're newbies?).



The Easter Bunny came in for a bit but you didn't want anything to do with him. We also had a slower easter egg hunt at Grandma and Grandpa's home the next morning and you liked that better, I think. You especially loved that the Easter Bunny brought you your very own stuffed Big Bird (you're still addicted to Big Bird Goes to China). He's now replaced your leopard as number one sleeping companion.



All in all it was an exciting weekend that you capped off by vomiting on the floor during dinner, right before we left. Poor little tyke. You'd had a stomach bug the week before, and we thought you were finally recovered, but I guess all the excitement got to you.



I'm loving this age you're at. I love that everything is big to you. You say bye bye to the big school (bee doo) and we get into the big car. If we're lucky we'll see a big garbage truck (bee bobo da), big tractor (bee dada), or - if you're really lucky - a big fire truck (bee doda). Anything not big is yours. Your cousin is My Zoe (MA dee), I'm your mama (MA mama), your dad's your dada (MA dada). Today when I picked you up from school, you even declared a little girl my Lindsay (MA Deedee).

Last night I got a little lump in my throat when I folded your little clothes (which are nearly too small now), thinking about how much I enjoy having you in my life, seeing the sun glint off your eyelashes and illuminate your blue eyes, watching you lumber around in your boots that are a little too big, triumphant at having put them on all by yourself, even if they are on the wrong feet. Your dad and I exchange many significant looks over you, looks that say it is so good, so right, to be here in this moment, in this family.

I've become one of those annoying parents who beams at their child's shenanigans, the antics that probably annoy everyone else, the kind who thinks the sun shines from their child's posterior. But I figure, if your parents don't think you're the most special person on the planet, who will?



Love always and forever,
Mum

Letter to Swee'pea: 25 months

Dear Swee'pea:



Yesterday you turned 25 months old. This letter is a day late because I was planning to write about how the last month has been nothing but sunshine and honey with you, and after that I sort of ran out of material. Over the last two days, however, we've swung back to the dark side of toddlerhood. You've been whining a lot and getting very upset at the drop of a hat. I hesitate to call them tantrums, because I'm not seeing anger so much as frustration tinged with hurt, some form of disillusionment.

I can't help but wonder if these outbursts have anything to do with your speech, and the difficulties people have understanding what you're saying. Shortly after I last wrote, your daycare centre suggested that you might benefit from speech therapy. I've filled out all the forms but nothing's happened yet. I suspect these things can be slow to start. Since then, you've started pronouncing the "s" sound at the ends of words to indicate both possesion and plural, as well as just words that end with s like bus. I found your breakthrough initially quite encourging. But then I discovered that it actually became harder to understand you, because you also use the sound of s to indicate f and soft g's. So, for example, where once move was "moo" now it sounds something like "moosh" or "mooce," off is "oss," and garbage is "babooce." I'm sure you can appreciate how confusing this could be. It seems like the concepts you are trying to express and the sentence structures you use just keept getting more complex, but your mouth and our ears can't keep up. (I mean, you're saying things like "Cat in the Hat" but it sounds like daadadadaa.)

And so I've found myself helplessly and apologetically telling you, "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're trying to say," over and over again in the last week or two. I can't imagine how frustrating that must be. I suppose it shouldn't really be surprising that you're suddenly prone to bursting into tears, absolutely inconsolable. Hopefully our ears will catch up with your new ways of speaking, and the tears will peter out.

Last weekend we went to our favourite Latin restaurant, the one that has a shelf full of toys and books for kids. On Saturday nights they have a musician play, and that night it was a man playing his guitar and singing classic rock. You enjoyed the show, and every time he finished a song you would clap your hands and cheer, "Yaaaaay!" The singer loved your attention and I think the other diners and staff were also pretty entertained. You were an absolute pleasure to dine with, relaxed and quiet apart from your friendly cheers, and eating your favourite noonoos with gusto when you could tear your attention away from the singer. It was a really lovely evening, and as we left, one of the servers said you must be an old soul, you must have been two before. It was funny, because just that day or the day before, I'd been studying the palms of your hands and remarking upon how lined they are, how lined they'd been since you were born. I once knew another child with hands like that, and I've always believed it to be the mark of an old soul.


You were sick a few weeks ago. It was the first time you've ever cuddled up on the couch with a blanket, and you sat very still and watched Big Bird, your eyelids heavy.

We've really enjoyed a lot of laughter this month. You've started undressing yourself and every night the three of us go upstairs to your bedroom and sit on your big bed while you take your clothes off with a little assistance, always in the same order. You start with your socks, pull each one off by the toe, then get off the bed to put them in your laundry hamper, stopping to check yourself out in the window reflection. Next comes your shirt, and you tell us which one of us you want to help; usually it's me who pulls your sleeves off your arms and the shirt over your head. Then you toddle over to the hamper, stopping to admire yourself in the mirror, pat your chest or your belly, and exclaim that you have No Shirt On! ("no do dah"). Next we undo the fastener on your pants, and you pull them down and step out or shake them off each foot in turn, followed by the trip to the hamper and the exclamation of "No Pants On!" Then we take your diaper off and your gallop into the bathroom and your bare butt disappearing from view at speed is just about the cutest thing ever.

You've also gotten a lot more sophisticated in your peekaboo play. I'll come out of the kitchen, and not be able to see you anywhere. Then I'll hear a giggle or squeal of delight from behind the couch or the kitchen door and I'll look over and there you are! You never seem to tire of this hilarity, and frankly neither do I. Last night I tucked you in and came downstairs and 10 minutes or so later, you started calling for me. Usually you fall asleep quickly once I leave, so I didn't mind going back upstairs for another brief cuddle. When I looked into your room, I couldn't see you. You'd pulled the covers over your face and hands to completely hide yourself, and when you heard me ask, "Where's Swee'pea?" you threw them back and squealed again. I thought it showed remarkable planning skills on your part.

The other day you had a check-up with the doctor. You weren't keen to stay on the scale while she measured your height, but after the appointment I couldn't get you off it. You are 34.5 inches tall (50th percentile) and you weigh 30 pounds 10 ounces (just over the 75th percentile). You still have a hearty appetite and it's showing. The doctor was most impressed to hear how much you like to eat curried cauliflower and potatoes. Later in the day I decided to take you to get a potty. You've been expressing interest in peeing and the toilet, so I figured we'd get one for when you were ready to try sitting on it.

Never before have I regretted a purchase so intensely and so immediately as I did that day. You picked out the potty yourself, a yellow one, after sorting through the pink, blue and red ones, and I figured it was good that you were keen. It was nearly dinnertime when we got home, but immediately you wanted to sit on your potty. "Pee!" you kept demanding, so fine. I put on Big Bird Goes to China, your favourite (and just about only) movie and plunked the potty down in front of it, figuring I'd make dinner while you "peed." Pleased as punch, you sat. And sat. And sat. Until you stood up and peed on the floor.



Then I thought I'd better put a diaper and pants on you, because I couldn't keep a close eye on you AND cook dinner, but no. "NO Diaper!" ("No baba") you said and chucked the diaper across the room. You wanted to eat but I (horrible, unjust mother than I am) wouldn't let you eat on the potty. I wanted you to sit in either your high chair or the 50s telephone table that you call your big tractor ("bee dada"), and for that I required that you have pants AND a diaper on. Oh, the injustice. Eventually I got you to permit the diaper and pants and even socks, and set some food in front of you on the big tractor. I went into the kitchen to start dinner, and came back out a few minutes later for some reason or other, and you'd put the potty on the chair of the telephone table and put yourself in the potty! So I did what I any safety-concerned mother would do and got the camera and took pictures before telling you that you absolutely must not sit on the potty on the telephone table, the potty must stay on the floor.



To make a long story short, the potty ended up in the bathroom upstairs, you cried for nearly an hour and I postponed dinner trying to console you and use logic to explain why I'd so unfairly put the potty next to mama and dada's potty. By the time your dad got home, slightly later than expected, we were both drained.

Your attention to detail and fastidiousness has also become more obvious this month. Now, you accompany me to the bathroom most mornings, and while I pee on the toilet you close the lid on the toothpaste and shampoo and moisturizer bottles that your dad and I have left open because we're lazy slobs like that. When we get down to the kitchen, you spend your first few minutes closing the cupboard doors and drawers that your dad and I left partly open after you went to bed. I also have an eye for detail, so I'm not surprised you have it too. I mean, I notice that the drawers and cupboards and toothpaste tubes are open, but I'm too lazy to DO anything about it. But where you got the urge to actually address these transgressions??? I have no idea!

I keep saying this, but soon we are really going to have to do something about soother addiction. You want your "doodoo" all the time, and I feel guilty when I wonder if that's why you're having difficulty with your speech. Every time I pluck the damn thing out of the your mouth - pop! - within minutes to you're whining and crying for it and I think, I just don't have strength for this battle today, maybe tomorrow. But one of these days we're just going to have to hunker down in the trenches and tough it out.




Overall, I'm loving this stage of your childhood. We're all sleeping much better, you can tell me when you're hungry or thirsty - heck you even take what you want out of the fridge - you pick out your own books for us to read, you make us laugh all the time. Of course the whining and crying are not so fun, but the giggles and tickles far outweigh the bad times. You are a treat.

Love Always and Forever,
Mum

Letter to Swee'pea: Two Years!

Dear Swee'pea:

Today you are TWO years old! Or, as your daddy pointed out this morning, twice as old as you were last year, and that only happens once in your life.

This month you have been an utter treat. You have been much more agreeable, and, not incidentally, so have I. I'm not sure which of us is the chicken and the egg here. You've also been sleeping better, since we moved the Big Bed into your room. You've become suddenly more attached to your stuffed animals, where before the Big Bed it was really only your "baby" leopard who comforted you. Now you have your teddy bear (Dada Bo) and the other teddy bear (Nana Dada Bo) and your elephant (dteedtee) and a new armadillo (deedeedodo) that your daddy brought back from Texas last night. You fall asleep in the Big Bed, often by yourself after a cuddle with me or your dad, and sleep at least until 3 a.m. Then, when you call for me in the middle of the night, I tell you to come to my bed and you pitter patter your bare feet across the pine floor, and come bustling importantly up to my side of the bed, your arms full of whatever stuffed animals you could fit into them (usually your leopard and your big teddy bear). It is the most adorable night waking we've yet had the pleasure to witness.



I have a feeling that your trips into our bed will continue for a long time. I remember when I was a kid, any time I woke up in the middle of the night I also sought company. First it was in my brother's bed, then, maybe when I was four or five, I started going into my parents' bed until I was 12 or so. We don't mind your joining us, and even if I did, I could hardly refuse you knowing that I never liked being alone in the middle of the night either.

Sometime in the last month my Christmas-slash-birthday gift arrived for you, a photobook I made of the story of your trip to South Africa last year and the celebration of your first birthday over there. When it arrived I showed it to you right away and you were interested until I turned the first page and you saw yourself in the pictures and heard your name in the story. You got so upset you didn't even want to look at the book, and you got even more upset when I tried to look at it by myself. I was fascinated by the intensity of your reaction. I think you just couldn't handle seeing yourself in the storybook. After a couple of hours, you started asking to look at the book, which you call the other book (nana bo) or the Ezra book (dada bo). Now you love it, especially the part about riding the big airplane and seeing the lion.

I don't think I'm imagining a burgeoning interest in the visual representation of things. You love to draw and have filled up two big pads of paper since Christmas. I know I'm biased but you seriously know how to hold a crayon and you have far more control than I would expect. You can draw single lines and circles and make dots. You love to get daddy and I to draw for you and your favourite subject matter are Christmas trees and snowmen. You also like it when we draw flowers and butterflies. Your daddy's a much better artist than I am and he can draw elephants and dogs and cats. I can draw stick people and Christmas trees. You know all your colours now, with 100 percent accuracy, and your marked preference for blue socks continues more passionately than ever.

Apparently your artist's eye also turns to sculpture. The other night you were eating lasagne and a piece of bread and you were sort of playing with your large-ish pieces of bread. You started to laugh, and when I asked what you were laughing at, you pointed at the bread you'd laid on your tray and said Christmas tree (mama dee)! like it was the most hilarious thing in the world. Followed by more howling laughter from you. It really did bear a resemblance to a Christmas tree, although I thought it looked more like a mushroom, personally. But you don't like mushrooms, you even pick them out of lasagne looking mildly insulted that they would dare sully your plate and you won't eat any more until I remove the offending item from your tray, so I'm not surprised you didn't see a mushroom.


Hey look! Your hair is getting long enough to curl a bit.

Last weekend the three of us built a sort of a snowman. Your daddy was all keen (as were you) but when we got into the backyard we discovered that I was the only one with experience. Because your daddy grew up in a place with no snow, he's more than a little handicapped in these endeavours. He made up for his lack of expertise with pure enthusiasm, however as did you, and now you have to say hello to the snowman every morning and bye bye every night and every time we get ready to leave the house you say, "bye bye snowman" (ba ba mama). You were very upset the other night because he melted quite a lot in the day and one of his stick arms fell out and he'd shrunken considerably, and you kept lamenting, "Uh oh! Uh oh!" all night. Luckily, though, it snowed again that night and all the next day so now he's bigger, if rather softly defined.



You have learned so much in the last month or so. You can open the fridge and take out whatever you want (which is actually not such a good thing if you see pasta and I'm trying to get you to eat something else). Last night, I told your daddy that I was thinking we'd just have tortellini because it was easy and you went straight into the fridge and pulled out the package of tortellini (dohhhhhh nini) and handed it to me. You love to help feed the cat, retrieving her empty bowl from the floor for filling and the catfood can from the fridge for emptying.

Right now you are playing with your 'big blender' (bee nono), which is not a blender at all but the kind of toy that you drop balls into and it makes a funny sound, a toy you stopped using in its intended way months ago. You are stirring in the 'blender' with the stick that accompanied the xylophone you got from your Great Granny in South Africa, the one that, upon hearing it was a xylophone when you first opened it, you put up to your ear and queried "hello?" (wowo?). This morning, every once in a while you bellow proudly, "Tortellini!!!" (Nnnnooo nnnnnooooo nnnnooooo nini!) from in front of your big blender, even though you didn't actually eat much tortellini last night. Maybe you just like the sound of the word.

You have learned how to pick out a dvd, remove it from its case, open the dvd player, put the disc in and close it, to watch it. We don't have many kids' dvds, especially not within your reach, but this month you have become enthralled with Baby Einstein's Baby Signs (bebe na) dvd. You repeat all the words back to the tv and even do some of the signs. We haven't been especially fond of the Baby Einstein phenomenon but since you have initiated this yourself, we'll go along.

Your peekaboo tactics have become more sophisticated. Sometimes you will hide spontaneously behind the stroller or a curtain and wait for me to start looking for you. You've also started using your hands. Sometimes you play old school with a towel or a blanket, and none of seems to tire of the game. My favourite moments are the ones when you give yourself away with giggles but you don't seem to realize it and when you appear and I exclaim, "Oh there you are!" you laugh the heartiest of laughs.



You have also just recently learned to say, "Yeah!" instead of saying uh huh and nodding. You've made us guffaw at least a few times, with this new word. Once in the bathtub, I triumphantly enticed a huge boogie out of your nose and you said, "Ohhhhh Yyyeeeeah!" Then last night I commented on the puffiness of your diaper as we undressed you for the bath. I said, "Wow, is your diaper really that puffy?" and you replied, "Ohhhhh Yyyyeeeeah!"

You made me laugh again the other night when I asked you a question, some kind of clarifying question like "Did you say truck? Where do you see a truck?" and you answered, "umm... ummm... ummm" just like I do when I've lost my train of thought.

You've had your first telephone conversations this month, and your very first one was with your grandpa (Baba!). Now you've become an expert, talking to Grandma (Mama) and dada when he was in Texas. I don't know what they say to you but you get a huge sheepish and pleased grin on your face and you say things like "Yeah!" and "Bye bye" and something that approximates I love you (dudu).

You have also started saying okay ("Otay!"). I had no idea such an unassuming and ubiquitous word could be such music to my ears. Now, when I ask you to put the pots back in the cupboard or your crayons in the box, you reply, "Otay!" and you actually make an effort to put them away. It's absolute heaven to save the big battles for mittens. Of course, I'm sure next month will see another flip-flop, but I think we really needed this agreeable and and fun and joyful month after the last one. We've had lots of giggles, just like I wished for when I was pregnant.

The last two years have gone by shockingly quickly. It's hard to believe you were ever small enough to fit in my belly, although we have the pictures on the wall to prove it was so. I love that you can tell me what you want and I don't have to fumble with endless rounds of trial error. Of course your language isn't perfect and neither is my comprehension but it's so much better than those fearful days of infant uncertainty.

Love Always and Forever,
Mum

Letter to Swee'pea: 23 months old

Dear Swee'pea:



Today you are 23 months old. This month, I can no longer deny, you have become strategic. You've known for a long time that you can influence events, you can make things happen. First you did it with signs and then you learned the finer precison of words. But now you are learning how to equivocate. Bedtime has become a bit of a battleground, as has dressing. You will stop at nothing to delay bedtime, asking for snacks and milk. The first time, I suspected you weren't actually hungry, but I knew that if you were hungry, you wouldn't sleep well. So I took you to your high chair and plunked some noonoos (your absolutely favourite food: any kind of pasta) in front of you. You looked at the food and smiled a triumphant and mischievious smile at me. You took about 15 minutes to eat maybe 10 small noodles, despite my warnings and threats and ranting about the Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Similarly, I have discovered it's much easier to get you dressed if I give you choice. You battle the concept of wearing a shirt much less if I let you choose between the orange shirt and the blue one, the turtle neck or the t-shirt. Now, however, you're onto me. This week, when I asked you to choose between the red socks and the gray ones (a bit dangerous in itself because you've been showing an obvious preference for all blue socks all the time but we were out of clean blue socks), you wanted the red. As soon as I brought the red socks near your feet, you screamed for the gray. And, surprise, surprise, when I went to put the gray socks on, you screamed for the red. This went on for some time until I finally had to be the heavy and tell you that this was your final choice. Period. End of story (I repeated myself a number of times to give you fair warning). Then it devolved into the wrestling match that typified our dressing sessions before I started giving you choices. The wrestling match was followed by intense screaming grieving, and finally a long cuddle before you accepted the socks on your feet.

I was planning to spend a significant portion of this letter complaining about your sleep - the lack of it, or more accurately your inability to fall asleep before 10 p.m. It's been going on for a week and it's seriously damaging my sanity. But, I've been going through my photos from South Africa and I came upon a photo that made me realize how far we've come in the sleep department.


This used to be our reality. I don't think I was as grumpy as I look in the photo - I think I was trying merely to look pensive - but maybe I was grumpy. Because when I zoom in on the photo I can see a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

Now, you take all your naps in the crib, unless you fall asleep in the stroller, and it doesn't usually take long to get you down in it, asleep. Back when that photo was taken, you were waking at least every two hours a night, sometimes more often (I think you were getting molars). Although your bedtime is proving extremely difficult at the moment, you mostly sleep through the night, albeit in our bed. All this to say I will shut up about the bedtime thing (although, if you could make it better, I'd be in a lot better frame of mind... think about it?).

This month your language has taken another leap into the galaxy of compound nouns: garbage truck (bobo da!), newspaper (newww bobo), papertowel (bobo wawa), vegetable soup (baba Boo) etc. You've also discovered adjectives and possessive pronouns. Everything is BIG these days, from plates to spoons to blocks to your poops (I think the daycare taught you that one). Your utterance of the word "my" is usually accompanied by a wounded, hard-done-by look.


Kind of like this. I asked you if perhaps you wanted to switch out your sweater vest for a full sweater, and you declined looking hurt that I would even suggest such a thing.



Christmas just passed and last week we brought your beloved tree down and put our new decorations away. The tree is sitting on our snowy front lawn and I worried about how you would cope with us throwing it out there. Mostly, you've been ok, although every time we come home and leave, you always talk about the tree and how we took the tree down (dee da) and we'll get another one (nana dee) next Christmas. (I don't think you really get the concept of next Christmas though.)

You've been enjoying your Christmas presents, although I've already learned the downside of them (they're a lot of small pieces that make lots of noise when the big box is emptied quickly on the floor, or when you rattle pieces around in a metal collander as if you're panning for gold). We got you a big box of lego blocks, a bag of toy vegetables that you can cut into pieces and peel and then put back together, and a tea set. You love them all and sometimes even combine them to serve vegetable tea or cut blocks. I didn't quite realize that the vegetables came with a toy knife, or I didn't realize quite how disturbing it would be to see you playing with your knife. More than once you've played at stabbing us, so we try not to encourage the knife play. You are an attentive server of tea, promptly asking us if we'd like more as soon as we've taken a sip. And you are not easily distracted from your quest to fill everyone in the room with pots and pots of imaginary tea. It's quite amusing really.



Some nights after you (eventually) go to bed, we will discover a cache of toy vegetable pieces in a collander under your high chair or a line of toy tea cups all nicely ordered along the vent. Except that hasn't happened in days (the bedtime part). As I write this you are still awake. The usual walking back and forth to music didn't work once again, so now your dad is lying down with you in our dark room. I've heard you crying for me several times -- oh! here you go again -- but I can't come to you. I have an angry snake curling around in my belly. If I lie down with you, it rises up and makes me into the kind of mother I never want to be. One who snaps with almost no provocation, one who reacts angrily to every little thing. It's almost feeling like a panic disorder, these moments when you won't sleep and won't leave me alone, and I feel like I will never escape.

It scares me that I want to escape motherhood sometimes. Makes me wonder if perhaps I'm one of those women after all -- one of those mothers who abandons her child(ren) forever, or simply buries herself in other work, barely sparing a distracted hug or chuckle or pat on the head for her child(ren). Not that I'm going to do it right now, just sometimes I see clearly that I could become - permanently - the kind of mother I really didn't want to be. I had one moment when I thought maybe you would be better off without me, that I'm not good enough for you because I'm so angry. I imagine that's how mothers who abandon their children feel too.

I don't know why I'm so angry. So much of my life is really quite pleasant, including you. I just don't seem able to appreciate it at certain moments that overwhelm me with little warning. It used to be that at the points I knew I just couldn't take anymore, you would suddenly sleep well, and the edge I was perched on would recede to a safer distance. This has not been the case the last few nights. I hope these moments aren't all that you remember of me. I hope that overall, you find comfort and love in your memories of me. I hope things get better really soon.

I'm sorry I've spent so much of this letter going on about me and your lousy sleep habits, but they are a part of you, as am I. And besides, if you're reading this, surely we did something right?

Love Always,
Mum

Letter to Swee'pea: 22 months

Dear Swee'pea:
Today you are 22 months and one day old (sorry it's been a busy couple of days).



Shortly after I last wrote, you discovered the power of the word, "No!", the louder the better, and just like that you became a two-year-old. You'd uttered the sound before but always referring to something like snow. Until this month you just shook your head side to side to express the concept of no, and I must say that was considerably more enjoyable than your newest, most clearly enunciated word yet. For two solid weeks at least, your commitment to the word no was unwavering. In this case, no doesn't always mean no. If I offered you a banana, for example, you would respond vehemently, "No!" but if I then took the banana away, you'd respond even more vehemently, "No!" I found myself in a very delicate dance of trying to read your mind without offending your naysaying sensibilities. It was a very, very trying time. Nothing could go unprotested from putting clothes on to taking them off.

During this time, I found myself in a few standoffs with you from which I didn't know how to extract myself. One day you threw a bowl nearly full of fruit (I can't remember if it was orange or apple or grapes) on the floor and I didn't really care for that. So I got you out of your high chair and explained in a decidedly annoyed firm voice that if you were going throw food on the floor you have to pick it up. Well, you picked up a few bits then tried to go on your merry way. But I was serious.

"No," I said, "you have to pick up all the fruit."

"No!" you replied, and, pointing at me, "Mama!" you commanded.

I dug my heels in and continued to stand firm. You were going to pick up all those bits of fruit if it was the last thing I was going to do (you come by your stubbornness pretty honestly, I think). You picked up a couple of bits, to show fair play I guess, then once again stopped. You got louder and more intent on not. picking. up. any. more. fruit. We stared at each other over the fruit, waiting to see who would give. Tense moments passed. I wondered how I was going to get out of this, because you were clearly not going to pick up any more fruit. And I was in too deep to back down now. We continued to stare each other down.

Finally, I had a stroke of genius. "Swee'pea," I said, "you have to pick up this fruit because you threw it. Now, I'm going to count to three, and if you haven't picked up all the fruit by the time I reach three, I'm going to put you in your crib so you can think about all of this. Do you understand?"

You nodded though still with a defiant gleam in your eye.



I made sure to count slowly. "Oooooonnnnnneeee." And you sprung into action. You started picking up that fruit so fast your hands were a blur, and you even used both hands. I didn't even need to count two before you'd picked up all the fruit. I felt a thrill of victory and relief. Finally we could do something fun. I thanked you, and gave you a hug, my heart still pounding from the showdown, and we went and read some books. Since then I've taken a more pre-emptive approach, making sure to take your plate of food away before you get to the point of throwing it on the floor.

After a couple of weeks of solid, committed naysaying, all of a sudden, you stopped. You started using no more sparingly, and only when you meant it. Interestingly, I think this change corresponded almost exactly with your dad starting his new job, the one that allows him to spend the morning with us and drop you off at your daycare while I walk to my work. We all seem a lot happier now, especially you.



You still love to play Snack! and now you've brought your sand pail into the mix, which you constantly refer to as your blender ("nino"). If I slip up and call it a bucket, you look quizzically at me like what are you talking about? This is a blender. You usually use it for soup ("poo"), and mime pouring liquid into it, put your hand over the top, then make a loud, blender-like noise. Seeing your interest in cooking, I've been trying to think of ways to get you safely involved in cooking. So the other day I baked with you for the first time and it was hilarious. I felt like I had my own tv show, explaining each step to you, and you loved playing with the measuring cups and spoons. You also love the banana bread that resulted. I think we'll definitely start baking more together.

You are adorable with dolls and babies. At the Early Years Centre, you sometimes play with three dolls at a time, cuddling them and stroking their heads, putting them in the Bumbo chair for real babies or under the dangling toys. You kiss and nuzzle their heads and rub their bellies. It's faintly alarming just how closely you model the mothers of younger babies. At the moment it's feeling like a concerted effort to get yourself a baby sibling. You're fascinated with real babies too, and the other day you pointed to one of the pictures of me when I was pregnant with you and said, "Bebe!" I had told you a few months ago that those pictures were taken when you were in my belly, but it had been quite a while for you to remember spontaneously. I guess we'll have to see...

You've started singing songs a bit more, which is a real hoot. I think your favourite is "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." Your version goes something like this: do do do do do do (twinkle twinkle little star), na na na no na no (how I wonder what you are), ba ba ba ba ba ba (up above the world so high), ma ma ma ma ma ma (like a diamond in the sky). Mostly you sing it in a high-pitched monotone, and you always raise your arms above your head when you get to "up above."

Last weekend, we went on a horse-drawn trolley ride around downtown and the driver played Jingle Bells while we rode around, which you've sinced added to your repertoire. Your version goes: "ba ba ba ba, AY!" This month we also went to the Santa Claus parade, and although you hadn't yet heard of Santa, you loved all the tractors and trucks and when it was over you wailed for "Mo! Mo!" looking down the street in the direction from which they'd all come. Since then, your daycare has introduced you to Santa. He even came for a visit, but you, along with most of the toddlers, cried. Last night when I picked you up, your face was red and you gave a little sob when you saw me. Apparently they'd just been reading you the Night Before Christmas and the pictures of Santa scared you. So I think we won't see much more of Santa this Christmas, which is just fine with me (I'm a bit cynical of the old man in red, I think).

Nevertheless, you are getting into the spirit of the holiday and getting me into it too. You love the Christmas trees at your daycare and point them out to me almost every day. I'm hoping we'll get our own tree today and you can help me make some decorations for it. I'm more excited about this holiday season than I have been in the last twenty years at least, all because of you and your fresh excitement.



Love Always and Forever,
Mum

Letter to Swee'pea: 21 months old

Dear Swee'pea:

Tomorrow you will be 21 months old. Right now you are supposed to be napping, but you aren't, despite my best efforts, and I must confess to feeling just a bit peeved about this state of affairs. Especially since last night you woke in the middle of the night (many times) with a fever, and I awoke to small hands scrabbling under my shirt. Small hands that scrabbled under my shirt all night long. A cuddle-monkey at the best of times, your need for parental closeness multiplies exponentially when you're sick.



Sadly, you have already had one nasty nasty bug just a couple of weeks ago, which caused five days of fever and seven days and nights of parents who could not put you down asleep, not even on the couch, our usual standby when you're sick. I don't mean to sound callous or anything, I do feel sorry for you when you're miserable, but I'm merely trying to point out the whole chain reaction.



At this moment, it has just started to snow, big, fat, heavy flakes, the first snowfall of the season, and really your first snowfall (of course you've already experienced two winters but not in a really aware sort of way). You have become very aware of the weather lately, always commenting whether it's raining, windy or sunny ("naynay," "neenee" or "neenee") when we go outside. And now you keep looking out the window and saying, "No!" (snow).



We just had Hallowe'en, and we dressed you up in a store-bought zebra costume. (I started to feel guilty that I'm not talented enough to make you a costume, but then I remembered that I would have loved the luxury of a store-bought costume when I was a kid, so it's probably ok.) You enjoyed being a zebra, but at first refused to wear the hood portion on your head. We went to our next-door neighbour's house first ("Meee") and I suggested that putting the hood up would make for a better zebra effect. You said, "Oh," nodded once, and wore the hood up for the rest of the night. You kept saying, "Baba," then pointing at your chest. You loved being out at night and seeing all the other kids all dressed up. We didn't exactly trick or treat, since I felt guilty that you wouldn't actually eat any of the candy and it would all be for me and your dad, but we visited a few friends and neighbours. A few times I asked if you were ready to go home, and you kept saying, "Mo!" (more) so we kept walking. It was a surprisingly mild night for Hallowe'en and we enjoyed ourselves too.



You enjoyed seeing the pumpkins ("Deedee" for some reason - you continue to have some idiosyncratic pronunciations like "bobo" for sweater and "poo" for soup), but you weren't so keen on helping clean the pumpking out a few days earlier. You refused to touch the slimy, seedy bits, which I'd thought you might enjoy, since you enjoy helping out so much, but you would only use a large spoon, which wasn't terribly effective. So I separated out the seeds from the slimy bits myself and roasted the seeds, while your dad carved a black widow spider and you coloured with crayons on the newspaper underneath the pumpkin. It was an entirely pleasant family activity, with the Shins playing what seemed like the perfect Canadian autumn music, a band that you probably haven't heard of or if you have is so old I'm showing my age. Whatever. It was a nice afternoon is all I'm trying to say.



Earlier in the month we picked out the pumpkin at a local pumpkin farm and I took lots of pictures of you with your pumpkin-coloured hair among all the pumpkins, big and small. Your favourite part of that day was riding a wagon begin a real, live tractor, your first tractor ride. You also enjoyed riding in a smaller wagon that your dad pulled. You remain obsessed with all things wheeled.



With the cold weather, we have discovered you have a near-phobia of mittens, and a love of toques ("tu"). So far the fall's been so mild, we've been able to get away with having you tuck your hands under your legs to keep them warm, and if you take them out, I just ask if you want to wear mittens and you quickly tuck them back under. But today it is very cold so soon we will have to have some sort of confrontation. I think we'll try socks up to your elbows underneath your coat first.



One of your favourite games at the moment is "Snack!" Every time you utter the word "Naaaa!", you draw it out with such unbridled enthusiasm that in my mind it's always capitalized and followed by at least one exclamation mark. Anyways, the game. There are two versions, one where you take your small, bright orange toy plates and place a block or other small item on each one and sort of pass it around to some imaginary tablemates, or to whoever's actually in the room. The other version involves using pots, either real or toy, to cook the snack on a stove, either toy or imaginary. You put some small item in each pot, put the lid on, rattle it around the stove, and if it's an imaginary stove, you say, "Doh," then remove the lid and announce, "Naaaa!"



Thanksgiving dinner was the first time you used the word, or the first time I recognized your usage. We came into your grandparents' dining room and the moment you laid eyes on the table overflowing with food and place settings, you yelled with glee, "Naaaa!!!" I think you must have been quite hungry. Speaking of food, since I last wrote I've taken action on the food-throwing front. Now, when you throw food on the floor deliberately, I get you to pick it all up yourself and throw it out. I think you mostly enjoy it, although you often lose focus before the task is complete, and we have had at least one confrontation when you refused to pick them up, shaking your head and wearing an expression on your face exactly like I wore when I was 16 and my mom was asking me to do something I deemed beneath me. The standoff went on long enough that I was forced to drop my expectations and eventually settled for just having you pick up one piece, which you did, grudgingly. This scares me, a bit.

Overall, this month has seen a lot of laughter in our house, despite the illness and sleep deprivation. You just make me laugh so much right now, with your occasional short "Oh"'s to indicate you understand what I just said and stand corrected from what you'd previously thought, with your passion for sweeping and excitement for laundry, with the connections you make between things, and a million other small things I can't think of right now. You give us lots of hugs, often spontaneously, during which you say, "Awwwww." I'm not sure if it's your word for hug or an imitation of your dad's and my responses to your spontaneous hugs and cuddles.



Whatever mistakes await us down the road, the love your dad and I share for you is the biggest love either of us has ever experienced, a love that squeezes my chest and punches me in the gut with its expanding magnitude. Our futures are filled with uncertainty, but I believe you will never doubt that we love you always, unconditionally. Or at least that's my one major hope for you, that above all else, you will know you are loved.



Love Always and Forever,
Mum