Monday, October 25, 2010

Month Thirty-six

Dear Henry,

Well, kiddo, you're three. And this letter is late. If I were speaking in your current toddler vernacular I would say this letter is really later. You do like to add the comparative suffix. We play this pronoun game with you in the car sometimes. It starts with you saying "I'm the me," and then your pops or I will say, "No, I'm the me and you're the you." And then you'll yell, "NO. I'M THE ME. And you're the you and you're the you." You point to each of us as you say the latter. We can usually keep this going for five or ten minutes. I've got to try and get it on film because it's hilarious to listen to. If I can say anything, it's that you are very passionate about being the me. You also say stuff like "we both like pie" when you're referencing all three of us. I usually try to give you a brief, not so coherent explanation why both doesn't apply to more than three people and then you'll tell me I'm right and repeat what you said originally. Methinks you dismiss me, little one.
You like radishes. And this should be noted because it is a weird little vegetable for a toddler to enjoy. They are spicy and crunchy and you request them every time we go to the store, along with chocolate and cucumbers, and you always grab one green bean to nibble on as we head down the aisles. I can manipulate you into doing what I need you to do if running is involved. Because you still really like to run. A lot. So, we run in the aisles when getting our groceries (if it's not too busy, of course), we run home from the park (watching out for monsters), we run to the car when we're leaving the house. We run all over the place. 
I probably owe you an apology for my lame attempts at play. Hand me a Barbie and I know what to do. I can have Barbie date ready in under two minutes. And I can decorate her house, have her making phone calls to her friends using her cell phone accessory, and get her to try on seven different pairs of shoes. Hand me a Batman, on the other hand, and I'm at a complete loss. What does a superhero do? Or a garbage truck? Besides pick up garbage, that is. And what's with this "shoot the bad guys" talk all of a sudden? Have you been sneaking in old John Wayne movies when I'm not looking? But bless your little heart, you don't care that I suck as a play partner. You're just happy to have me hang out on the floor with you. The end result, though, is that I treat your cars and trucks and buses and bad guys as if they were Barbie. While your garbage truck is actually doing garbage truck stuff, my garbage truck is going home to wash the dishes and get ready for her date with Ken. 
We should probably talk about attitude. You have a super duper one now. (The previous sentence is an example of sarcasm, son. There's nothing truly great about it. It's one demanding little 'tude.) When sleepy or hungry or when experiencing any other sort of unpleasantness, the 'tude comes out, typically in the form of a shout of "NO," followed by an arm swing. Oy vey. I hope this is one of those phases that passes quickly because sometimes my patience is worn extremely thin by the time your pops gets home from work. In other news, for the most part we have finally, and somewhat reluctantly, said goodbye to your afternoon nap. With a power nap under your belt you can keep going until well after ten. But with no nap, even though a real grumpiness descends upon you, and by extension the rest of the house, right around the time we sit down for supper, you are in bed and asleep (usually) before eight o'clock. And then your pops and I are left to ask ourselves what we're supposed to do. We're a little thrown having so many hours to ourselves in the evenings.
All toddler twoness aside, you remain a very sweet boy. You are generous with your hugs and kisses, you are eager to play, you are the best snuggler in the world (and that's really saying something, there are  over six billion people on the planet), you are helpful in the kitchen, and you have officially taken over the duty of ice cream taste tester. You are just as excited to dress up as a superhero as you are to dress up as a princess, which you've done. Many times. It's at a time like this, when I'm writing your monthly letter, that I am reminded of how truly amazing it is to watch you grow up. You approach life with such energy and enthusiasm. You take my breath away, Bean. There is nothing like being a parent. No job as exciting. No work as enthralling. No project as worthwhile. I love you all the way to the celestial body formerly known as Pluto and beyond. 


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