Letters to Jack: 4 years, 2 months


Hey there, sweet thing,

It’s a few days before New Year’s, mostly quiet in the house. We just finished reading two books — Thanks from the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and Cars’ Tractor Trouble — in your new big-kid bed. We couldn’t find Alex, your green, stuffed alligator whose nose and tail you’ve chewed off, so we decided he must be playing hide and seek and, boy, he picked a really good spot. Dad and Charlie are taking turns reading a book in his room, and he’ll be going to bed soon, too.

Sounds like an idyllic holiday break, no?

In many ways, it really has been. Lots of time together, and time with your grandmas. Cuddles on the couch while watching old-school “Frosty the Snowman.” Trimming the Christmas tree and eating cookies. A blissful trip to a ranch where you got to feed sheep, ride horses, and go on a hayride to look for Christmas lights.

But there has also been screaming. So much screaming. And yelling. And crying. Your new four-year-old brain must be going through some kind of massive transformation because you’ve been acting downright bonkers for the past few weeks.

Lack of impulse control is a recurring challenge. A lot of Jack-don’t-touch/do thats followed by you repeatedly and unceremoniously touching and doing just that. On Thursday you locked yourself, me and Charlie in the garage only minutes after getting in trouble for locking the bathroom door. No phone. No shoes. No bra. Ah, fun times.

And there are the tantrums, those classic zero-to-60, I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now episodes that generally leave you writhing on floors or screaming in the car. You’re getting stronger, so you’ve begun responding physically to situations that you don’t find acceptable. Pinching, biting, hitting. While wrangling you at the Zoo the other day, you tried four times to tear my glasses off my face because you were so pissed.

The majority of these situations unsurprisingly involve your brother, because you still fight like you’re competing in the Hunger Games. If I hear another “No, you didn’t, “Yes, I did,” “No, you didn’t,” “Yes, I did,” exchange between the two of you, I may move out of the country.

Or, one instant you’re laughing uproariously at one another, then shrieking that one of you hurt the other — ON PURPOSE, of course — then back to laughing uproariously again. All in like four seconds. How can parents survive this madness?!

I took you and Charlie to Target a few weeks back — without Dad, silly me — and the entire trip was like this. One minute, I’m yelling out for you to stop playing tag in the breakable household goods section; the next, I’m trying to console your broken heart because Charlie said we couldn’t buy the gift bag of the dabbing Santa and ripped it out of your hands.

In the checkout line, you decided it would be fun to wrestle each other, right there on the dirty Target floor. Limbs everywhere. Giggles punctuated by screams of pain. I looked down at you both, exhausted defeat in my eyes, and heard a man chuckle behind me.

“Boys,” he said, with a look of empathy. “I’ve got two at home.”

Yet, between the fighting episodes have been some really sweet moments. Christmas Eve and Christmas morning were just lovely. You are fully immersed in the magic, and so is Charlie still, we believe, so the whole thing was such a joy for your Dad and me. Your favorite gifts from Santa were pajamas (PJ Masks and moose ‘jams), a Hot Wheel race care track, Alpha-Bots, and a neck pillow for the car. In fact, you love that pillow so much that you wore it on your head for at least 48 hours.

Your holiday concert at preschool was hilariously special. I joke that you’re not destined for the theater because you just marched to the beat of your own drum up there, baby. No singing “Gingerbread Man” with your classmates. And you forgot — or didn’t care about — choreography. Instead, you waved excitedly at Grandma B and me, gazed in giggly awe at all the parents in the audience, and didn’t quite feel like going back to your seat when your group solo was over. I’ll treasure the video I took of that performance forever.

For Halloween, I convinced you to be a “Jack” character for the fourth year in a row (victory!) and you went as Jack Jack from the Incredibles. In November, we took you to Disneyland for the first time, where
you loved the rocket ships and sat in the front seat on Splash Mountain!
Driving into the parking structure, Grandma Z said, “Jack, get ready to be amazed.” You exclaimed, adorable, “I wuv to be amazed!”

There are the more subtle joys, too. Like how you make friends with adults and kids wherever you go. The way you close your eyes and smile when you taste something that you like. Your obsession with whether or not we are driving on a freeway, and, if so, what is it’s name; if not, when will we go on the freeway?! Your preference for sitting on my lap on the couch, no matter how big you get.

I’ve been thinking a lot about all the growing you’ve been doing. Perhaps it’s because you have a new baby cousin — Welcome to the world, Elizabeth! — and she seems so tiny. Or that I was pregnant with you when Charlie was four years and two months old. You’re in a booster seat, a big-kid bed, and you can get dressed and undressed yourself (when you want to). You’re reading a bit and doing early addition. We took you to see The Grinch, your first movie in a theater, and you did great.

I love that you are growing older, but I still cherish those fleeting moments when you still feel new. On Thanksgiving, you fell asleep in the car on the way down to Grandma Z’s and I was able to carry you into the house still zonked. For at least a half an hour, you lay on my chest, sound asleep, drooling a bit, breathing deeply into me. You felt warm and wonderful.

Now, that’s what I call idyllic.



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Letters to Jack: On Turning 4


My dear Jack,

I knew exactly what was going to happen, and that made it all the sweeter.

Walking in the door at the end of the day, you and Charlie were in your usual spot– shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, watching “Robo Car Poli.” I threw down my bags, threw on some ‘jams, and curled up next to you.

Without missing a beat, you climbed onto my lap (or, at least, tried to get as much of your giant body as possible onto my lap) and snuggled in close.

That was last night. And today, my dear boy, you turn 4 years old.


I clearly remember Charlie’s fourth birthday; you were growing in my belly and Charlie suddenly seemed so big. 

You, however, still feel like my little guy. I think it’s because you’ve managed to retain a sweetness that feels so pure, a gift from the universe.

Besides being the world’s biggest cuddle bug, you’ve begun saying “I wuv you” unprompted. You say it often, while stroking my arm at the dinner table, when I’m buckling you into your car seat, as I deliver a fresh bowl of Cherrios to the breakfast table, when you’re stalling before bed. You close your eyes, flash your sweet smile, hug me around the middle, and all is right with the world.


You talk to everyone — kid, adult, Vons checkout clerk, Amazon delivery guy — and strike up a conversation. You ask so many questions. You love to share facts about your life, about your big “bwothuh.” You have the most silly, expressive faces. You shouted, “MISS DAISY!!!!!!!!!!,” when you spotted your teacher on the first day of school, and ran at least 50 yards before jumping into her arms. You asked for Charlie to have a a turn opening your birthday presents so that he would be happy, too.

Of course, this doesn’t mean you’re sunshine and rainbows all the time. In fact, some of our most frustrating times with one another have occurred in the past few months. It’s the age, for sure. Tantrums happen quickly.  Time outs happen frequently.

You have very strong opinions about the “right” way for me to play toys with you. You still balk at eating most meat (vegetarian, maybe?) and hate sharing your “gratefuls” for the day at the dinner table.

The whining — oh, the whining! — can feel interminable. In the morning, it can take us a half hour to just get you on the potty and into some clothes. And you’ve begun shouting, “BUT I KNOW EVERYTHING!,” when I correct something you’ve said.

Also, you and Charlie tell on each other like I’ve offered some kind of reward.

However, there are more and more bright spots in your brotherhood. You’ve both learned that NOT waking up Mom and Dad on the weekends garners you more “chips,” which you can exchange for screen time, so Saturdays and Sunday mornings have been lovely.

I slept PAST 8 A.M. last weekend, while you played together in Charlie’s room. Quietly. Without killing each other. Me from a year ago would have never thought that was possible.


You love weekends, actually. We bought you a magnetic calendar for your room because it became so difficult to break the news every morning that, no, it wasn’t a weekend day. You love to cross off the days and add magnet descriptors about what’s coming up, but get frustrated when I take down the “Snow Day” tile. Sorry, dude, we live in a desert.

Preschool is incredibly fun at this age. At four years old, you’re no longer one of the youngest kids. You can write your name. You’ve begun reading three-letter words. You ask me to read every display we see (last week, for example, the lipstick signage at CVS).

You’re a big kid, physically, too. In the last few months, we’ve had to plunge your toilet more frequently than the entire time we’ve lived in this house. I don’t understand, you’re so tiny. WHERE DO YOU KEEP SUCH GIANT POOP?!

You recently embraced your first joke, and tell it constantly.

“Mommy, what’s a zombie’s favorite toy?”

“Jack, you just told me the answer. Three times.”


“I dunno, Jack. What is it?”

“A deady bear!!!!!!!!!!”


I am so appreciative of this time with you, my little sweets. I fully recognize that as my youngest and last child, I’m probably holding on a little too tight to the baby in you.

It’s just that you cast so much love into this world. It’s almost too much for my heart to bear. I glance around, try to make eye contact with other adults, as if to say, “Can you believe this kid?! He’s so incredible, right?!”

While pushing you on the backyard swing the other day, you yelled out, “Push me higher, Mom, so that I can kiss the sun!”

You, my birthday boy, shine just as bright. May this coming year — and all the years that await — be filled with such light.




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Letters to Jack: Almost 4

img_20180626_072850.jpgDearest Jackers,

Wow — it’s really been a while since I last wrote you a letter. More than three months! I’m sorry, buddy.

The delay was due to a combination of factors: we’re a busy family, the obvious fact that I’m working too much, my struggle to find time to write, and just sheer exhaustion by the end of the day when I might have that time.

But, enough about me. Right now, you and Charlie are in the living room with Dad playing “Super Mario Odyssey.” Since his birthday, Charlie’s been on that game every time he has screen-time “chips” to exchange, and you’re content to sit next to him and just watch. Charlie will sometimes give you a play-by-play, you’ll tell him to watch out for bad guys. It’s very cute.

You’re getting along better, and I think this is partly because you can do more big-kid things. You understand the concept of tag now, so you and Charlie play that often. The other night, Dad and I paused while making dinner and realized that Charlie was teaching you how to play Uno in the other room. It was quiet, no one was screaming, and I gave myself a smug pat on the back for having two children who could be each other’s friends.

Today is a bit of a milestone day. The road leading us here started a few months ago when my flabbergasted friends convinced me that you no longer needed the “OMG ARE YOU BREATHING” monitor in your bed. I slowly (though not completely) got used to the black void of unknowing, though I was still going into your room when I heard you stir in the morning.


Well, something clicked today when you began calling for me before 6:30 a.m. If there is no monitor on your bed, I realized, then you can totally get out of bed on the weekends and play by yourself WHILE MOMMY SLEEPS. Gosh, I’m brilliant.

You’re potty trained at night now — another great success over the past few months — so I don’t need to worry about diapers and such. I dug through your closet and brought out The Tot Clock that Ash gave us years ago. Starting tomorrow, you will know it’s morning when the clock turns yellow and you can play alone in your room. While I stay in bed. (Here’s hoping.)

This summer, we took a big trip with friends up to the Redwoods. In total, there were 25 of us, 10 of whom were children. I loved spending so much time as a family, and you and Charlie had incredible fun bouncing back and forth among the cabins. There were two other kids about your age, and you often sat as a trio at dinner trading utterances of fart, poop and butt.


One day, you and I stayed behind while the adults and big kids went on a long hike. That was OK with you because there was construction work happening along the main road, so we just sat by the entrance to our cabins and watched dump trucks and excavators pass by all morning.


You also started swim lessons, and boy, you’re a fish. Charlie was fearful of, and resistant to, swimming until he was in first grade, so it came as a surprise how you jumped in — literally! The challenge is that you think you can do more than you’re able to, and you try lunging out of my arms to swim on your own. I let you go once, and you just sank, so we’ve got to be careful about that.

You were really into Fourth of July fireworks this year. We decided you were old enough to go to the show near our house. You loved how big and bright and loud they were, and now when you sit on Dad’s shoulders you pretend to be a firework exploding in the air. Poof!


This summer, you’ve spent your days at a preschool housed in the local concrete jungle of a high school. It’s been fine, I guess. I mean who needs grass and open space when it’s consistently over 90 degrees outside anyway? They also have scrap paper for coloring from the local jail, which I’m sure there is a story behind. Still, I miss your home classroom and teachers, and I’m looking forward to school starting in a few weeks.

Before the school year ended, you and your classmates put on a music show that I couldn’t attend because of a work conflict. This was heartbreaking for me, but luckily Dad and Grandma B went, and smartphone videos are a thing. The kids wore some sort of costume during one of the early songs, and for some reason, the teachers didn’t take yours off. So, for the rest of the show, you sat happily at the edge of the group with a GIANT PINK FLOWER ON YOUR HEAD. Not bothered one bit. At one point during the show, you and your giant flower got up to pick up a piece of trash on the floor. The whole thing may be one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.


Last night, we saw some families from Grandma B’s old preschool. It’s incredible to see all of you kids grow up. You, of course, talked the ears off one of the Dads as soon as we arrived. Later, another Dad remarked how you’re still so loving and affectionate.

This is one of my favorite constants about you. After all this time, you still love to cuddle on the couch. This morning, I brought you into bed hoping you’d fall back asleep, and you just rubbed my arms and touched my face and patted my hair. You still prefer to sit on my lap than anywhere else in the world, and it’s so comforting to feel your body tucked into mine.

The next letter I write will be for your fourth birthday (!!!!), and I know I need to hold on to these sweet moments when you still want to hold onto me.

Thank you for choosing us, little guy.




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Letters to Charlie: On Turning 8

IMG_20180526_092659Happy birthday, my baby boy.

You always tell me you’re no longer a baby when I call you that, and I always respond with that awfully cliche, but so totally true statement that no matter what your age, you will always be my baby.

These days, it’s hard to believe you were ever a tiny newborn. You’re almost as tall as my shoulders, and now it’s a game to see what you can do with all of your limbs when you try to sit in my lap. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but the last time I’m ever going to pick you up may have already happened.


There’s a certain amount of sorrow in that, but it’s quickly overshadowed by what a completely cool kid you are. Seven was my favorite year by far — and not just because you’re old enough to make your own breakfast most days. You are so interesting to be around, never afraid to ask questions about the universe around you. Sometimes, you make me roar with laughter at your clever jokes. And you’re still deeply into reading, so much that your teacher has caught you several times not listening to lessons because you’re sneaking a glance at the book  from inside your desk.

Speaking of school, it’s gone pretty great this year. You have two weeks left to go, so I’m knocking on wood while typing this, but you haven’t seen the principal once this year! You had a few struggles at after-school care — angrily pouring sand on a kindergartner’s head (in front of his parents) comes to mind — but it’s been pretty quiet for a few months.


Last week, your teacher emailed us after you blazed through a quarterly reading comprehension assessment in 15 minutes (the school allows two hours for the test). Not surprisingly, you received your lowest score all year. Your teacher thought you were rushing to get back to your book (which would’ve been ironic, and not surprising), but when Dad and I spoke with you about it, it became clear you were trying to “beat” the boy next to you.

Thus ensued a lengthy conversation about how “winning” doesn’t always mean coming in first. You argued that you did win because you scored six points higher than the boy. Au contraire, we explained. If he scored even one point higher than his last test result, he actually beat you.

You didn’t like that very much.


Age 7 is really when these shades-of-gray conversations about the world begin. Outside of Vons one day, I donated a few dollars to an organization that serves children with special needs. It spurred a deeper conversation about the organizations and causes your Dad and I support, including the ACLU. You asked what they do, and after I explained, you asked me if I knew that “people with our skin color used to hate people with black skin color.”

We talked about the history of why that was. I impressed upon you how these awful feelings still exist in our country and why “people with our skin color” need to be aware of that. To try driving home the ridiculousness of racism, I used the example of one of your friends who wears glasses. What if our society decided that all people who wore glasses were not as “good” as those who didn’t? What if they decided to hate your friend because of it? What if you couldn’t play with him simply because he wore glasses? You thought that reasoning was bonkers.


These kind of complicated conversations also come with complicated feelings. Driving to Costco one day, I heard you begin to softly cry in the backseat. Turning into the parking lot, you’d seen a man holding a sign that read, “So broke it hurts. Help a homeless family with children.”

It was clear you’d put yourself in their shoes and were experiencing true, overwhelming empathy. As your mother, I felt a mixture of sadness that you were discovering these profound injustices exist in the world, but also pride at the way you reacted. You helped us pick out some food that we purchased for the man and his family.


Sometimes I wish this kindness translated to your relationship with Jack. At one point this year, I had to escape from the fighting and shrieking before I lost my sanity, so went for a run. Each time I wanted to stop, I thought about having to go back into our shrill house. I RAN NINE MILES THAT DAY. Sheer exhaustion was the only thing that brought me home.

Dad devised a brilliant strategy for tampering this conflict. You’d been asking for a Nintendo Switch for your birthday, so he mastermined a challenge for you to earn that gift: Each time you had a constructive interaction with Jack, you received a point; each time you had a detrimental interaction, you earned a point for that, too. By your birthday, you needed twice as many constructive points in order to earn the Nintendo.


Shockingly to us, it was easy to you at first. You were as sweet as pie to Jack for several days. Then, drift started to occur as your realized your brother can be a three-year-old asshat who sometimes bites.

Dad’s challenge gave us a framework for pointing out ways that you tend to stir up trouble, and there are more and more instances when it’s clear you’re trying to be nice to him, and he’s just looking for a fight. Suffice it to say, you’re really going to love your birthday present tomorrow.


Besides Jack, you’ve grown some great friendships this year. At your birthday party this weekend, I was heartened that you had so many kiddos to invite. I don’t intend for that to sound mean, but there were periods over the past few years when I was concerned that your intense competitiveness and deep emotions would make it hard for you to find your tribe.

I think Lego League Jr. helped a lot. You participated in this amazing STEM program over the winter (Dad was team leader) and you really blossomed. You’d decided by early fall that soccer was definitely no longer your jam, and weren’t interested in any other sports. Lego team was the first activity you were excited to do every. single. session. No dragging you to the car, no fighting about all the other things you’d be missing, no crying over not being able to use screens. You developed friendships with several other boys who were just as excited to participate.


Other highlights from your seventh year:

  • Halloween costume: Iron Man.
  • Protest attended: March for our Lives. “Mom, what’s the NRA?”
  • Ratio of “nice” smiles to silly ones in photos: 1:2056
  • First Broadway musical performance: Hamilton, in LA. Wooooooo!
  • Favorite board game: Marbles. You won your first game of this family tradition during a Christmas gathering, and now you’re hooked. You make all of our adult friends play with you when they come over.


  • Favorite puzzle: Word Search. I love when we work on these together.
  • Way you wear your hair: Smoothed down straight over your forehead and NO OTHER WAY. I can’t wait until you realize how cute you look with it styled. Dad and I have tried to bargain with you for TV time in exchange for letting us shoosh your hair.
  • Favorite video game: Monster Hunter. A few weeks ago, Dad took you to a friend’s house where the three of you played this game together for several hours. I don’t know whether you or Dad were more excited about that.
  • Favorite TV shows: “Superwings” and “PJ Masks.” You also love watching “Top Gear” with Dad.


  • Favorite book: Amulet series
  • Favorite song: “TNT” (Minecraft parody of Taio Cruz’s “Dynamite”)
  • Most despised song: “Breakfast Burrito,” when we curl Jack up in a towel after his bath and chase you around the house singing it.
  • Favorite sport: Bump.
  • Best friends: Raiden, Allie, Jet, Cooper, Everett, Forest…”Everyone who was at my party, mom.”
  • Favorite food: Grandma Barbara’s ice box cake and Grandma Z’s meatballs. You also ate HALF A LARGE PIZZA one day recently. I’m worried about your appetite as a teenager.


  • Favorite podcast: Wow in the World. This has become our new bedtime story.
  • Favorite movie: You still really dislike movies. I managed to get you to “The Greatest Showman,” but you absolutely refuse to watch it again (even though it’s the best movie EVAH). And we can’t seem to get past  Yoda and Luke on Dagobah in “The Empire Strikes Back.”
  • Knowledge about your family history: Zero. During Heritage Night at your school, I asked if you knew your family heritage. “Duh, mom. Californian.”
  • Favorite language: Pig Latin. Dear Lord, please let me survive this difficult time in our lives.


Wow, what a full year. I really don’t know how we’re going to top this one, buddy. But, knowing you, you’ll continue to bring magic, wonder and laughter into all of our lives.

I’m so proud of the person you are becoming. Whether you are 8 or 88, you’ll always be my baby boy — and I’ll always be grateful to be your mother.



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Letters to Jack: 3.5 Years

My dear, sweet boy,

I don’t know why, but you are so incredibly scrumptious right now. Getting you dressed for bed tonight, I couldn’t stop giving you all the kisses and nuzzles, hugs and tickles. I’m a little obsessed with you these days, charmed by your easy hugs and bright smile and the fact that you still pronounce “little” as “whittle.”

You’re at the crossroads of toddler and little kid, and I think my brain is trying to hold on to every sweet moment.

Your teachers are desperately enamored with you, too. Each time I drop you off or pick you up, one of them exudes her love of your effusive personality, your adorable vocabulary, your gentle affection. One teacher said she wishes her future grandchildren will be like you (she’s the one who nicknamed you “handsome”). Even the parents of your schoolmates seem excited to see you; they all know your name, whereas I can name maybe four kids in your class, on a good day.

Preschool is going very well. My hangups about the classroom have mostly dissipated. You’ve made friends. You come home happy and healthy, even if you groan all morning about not wanting to go to school (who knew complaining started this early?). And the whole pooping-in-the-potty thing finally clicked. One day about six weeks ago you woke up and — poof — you were a kid who pooped in the potty. Now our big battle is getting you to pee more frequently so you don’t find yourself at DEFCON 1 so often.

I can tell you’re learning so much at school — in English and in Mandarin! I was practicing Mandarin on Duolingo the other day (decided I should learn some basics about the language to keep up with you), and you said, “zài jiàn? — that’s goodbye!” For the past several days, you’ve been singing a song about a radish. You tell me it’s not in Mandarin,  “It’s just bá luó bo!”

Charlie and you are getting along better. Shall I dare acknowledge there is sometimes laughter in the house between you two? I give credit to Dad, who devised a brilliant challenge for Charlie’s upcoming 8th birthday that’s made a world of difference in our house (I’ll give more details when I write Charlie’s birthday letter in a few weeks). You two seem to particularly get along when you’re ganging up on or teasing me. Hey, I’ll gladly be the brunt of your jokes to avoid all that screaming.

We’re working on a few of your behavior quirks. You get this nervous laugh when we call you out on something you’re not supposed to being doing (like hitting Charlie). I try to remind myself you’re probably not trying to be defiant; it’s most likely some kind of auto response, but it can be aggravating.

Or, maybe it’s because you’re acting pugnacious lately. You’re kind of a dick to your brother at times, which is unfortunate because he’s working so hard to be nicer to you. You’ve learned that taunting Charlie can get a rise out of him. For example, you’ll say over and over, “I’m taller than youuuuu, I’m taller than youuuuuu,” even though that’s demonstrably false. Charlie gets angrier and angrier until he blows up, and then everyone is yelling.

Dad pointed out the other day that when you boys leave for college, I won’t hear “mom…mom…mom…MOM!!!!” every few seconds. He was probably trying to give me comfort during a relentless weekend, but the thought made me feel unexpectedly sad. While I absolutely love my relationship with Charlie as an almost 8 year old, I know how much it’s changed since he was your age. I’ll probably feel just as great about us when you’re at that age, but there’s something about you being my last baby that makes me feel like clinging.

Each day, you have more trouble fitting into my lap. Your hands are now longer than they are wide. We went to Legoland a few times over Spring Break and you were tall enough to ride a roller coaster. The signs are everywhere, reminding me that time marches forward.

But this time together brings such sweetness. The other night before bed, you grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in close for a big snuggle. Then you demanded “100 kiss and 20 hugs!”

My sweet, sweet boy. You can always count on me to give you that — and a “whittle” more.

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Letters to Jack: 3 1/3 years


Hey there, Jackers,

It’s funny what people will do to keep their sanity. On the 25-minute drive down to Ashleigh’s yesterday, you said “mom” 43 times. How do I know? Because keeping a tally in my head was the only way I wouldn’t drive off the road.

In the car, you want to ask and tell me everything. Sometimes you don’t even make sense. “Mom, why is that tree there?” “Mom, why are there no school buses?” “Mom, are we at Grandma Z’s yet?” “Mom, a construction site…did you see the digger? Did you see it? Mom, did you? Mom?,” “Mom, why is street?”

If I don’t acknowledge you right away, the “moms” get louder and more demanding. “Hey mom……..Maaaoomm……MoMoMoMoMoM………….MOMMY I’M TALKING TO YOUUUUUUUU.”


I read somewhere that age three is the “magical year.” That author must not have a toddler because I feel like I’m in the “threenager” year. You have many opinions. Things have to be exactly so. We can’t move on to any next thing until you finish a task just the way you want. I had to restrain you in the car seat last week because you didn’t like the way you’d climbed in the car and wanted to do it over and over again. We had three minutes to get Charlie to school.

You’ve begun talking back. Popular phrases these days include: “But, mom…” “I’m just,” “You are MEAN at me,” and “No, I can do it myself!”

You and Charlie are still fighting. A lot. In fact, as I write this, Dad is putting you both in time out for something. I’ve wondered if I shouldn’t have waited 4.5 years before having a second child, that maybe the age divide is just too much to bridge. But then I see other siblings that far apart in age who get along, and I realize it’s just your personalities that clash. That could have happened at any age. With hope, you are re-reading this as an young man and Charlie is your bestest friend in the world.


You’re entering your third month of preschool, and I’d say the transition is ongoing. You were — and still are — the youngest child in class, by at least six months. I didn’t realize how big a difference that was until I chaperoned your first field trip to the aquarium.

You were all over the place, both physically and emotionally. I attribute part of that to me being there with you, but it really was a full-time job trying to keep you from escaping into one of the tanks. You have another field trip to a busy museum coming up this week, and your teacher pretty much asked that we keep you home if neither Dad nor I could attend.


I can only imagine how tough it would be going from a class of four students taught by your grandma to a class of 22 students with several teachers. Not to mention an entire elementary school! During the school’s Lunar New Year celebration, you melted down in front of several hundred students and visitors while your class performed a Chinese song about a turnip. You’d never seen that many people before!

Your teachers say you definitely require more attention than the other students at this point. This is especially true of the potty. When I last wrote you a letter, we had eight days to get you potty trained before school began (a requirement to enroll). That first day, we felt pretty confident about pee and crossed our fingers about poop.

Well, we’re still crossing our fingers. We’re two months in, and I think you’ve pooped in the potty at school maaaybe four times? We’re at a loss for what to do, and I know it’s increasingly frustrating for your teachers. I can’t tell if it’s fear of pooping in the potty,  not knowing that it’s coming, or just stubborness. Like a cat, you tend to poop at recess when you’re playing in the sandbox, so maybe you’re just feeling relaxed?


It’s not much better at home. We started you on the “chip” system  in hopes that you’d be encouraged to poop in the potty. Achieve that and you earn six chips — that’s TWO “Umizoomis!” You’re not buying it — and I’m not getting far.

Me: Jack, I know you want to feel like a big boy. Big boys put their poop and pee in the potty. 

Jack: I’m not a big boy, Mommy.

Me: But I know that you want to be! And Daddy and I want you to be. Babies poop in their diapers, and you’re not a baby, Jack.

Jack: Mom, I’m NOT a big boy and I’m NOT a baby………I am Batman. 

I keep fearing the teachers will say you can’t stay in the classroom, but I think they like you too much. Especially your head teacher. She’s been so kind and gracious about your transition into her class. She’s always telling me how bright and articulate and energetic you are. She assures me that you’ll get there when it comes to the potty. At nap time, she sings to you while you rest your head on her lap.


I may get frustrated as we navigate these developmental milestones, but, Jack, there’s no one who can make me laugh like you. You are so curious about the world and so full of life. Your facial expressions and giggles are often the best part of my day.

You spread joy wherever you go. Leaving class the other day, I reminded you to say goodbye to your teachers. You stood in the middle of the class, threw up your arms, and shouted, “GOODBYE, FRIENDS!” Everyone beamed.

When we bought breakfast at the bagel shop, you asked if I could carry you to the counter so you could say thank you to the cashier. At night, after I’ve given you a hug, a kiss, then another hug, then another kiss, you always ask if you can have an extra hug and kiss in the morning.


One of my favorite things about having babies was when your hands were wider than they were long. I noticed the other day that this isn’t the case for you any longer. You’re growing so quickly. Potty trained or not, you are getting to be a big kid, and part of my heart aches for that.

Even though I need a break sometimes, I can’t be away from you or your brother for very long. Dad and I escaped for a night away last weekend, and while it was AMAZING to get that time alone, I started feeling a little antsy for you boys after about 30 hours.

There’s just something about being your mom that completes me. A colleague asked me recently about my 5- to 10-year goals, and what came to my mind was that I wanted to be a good mom.

So, please have patience with me as we travel down this road together. There are some days that are long and frustrating for me, as I’m sure they are for you. Know that I feel so damn lucky to be your mother, and I can’t wait for the adventures ahead — even if that means you say “mom” 3 trillion times on the way there.

“Hey, mom!”



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Letters to Jack: 3 Years, 2 Months


My dear boy,

Oh my. What a past few months!

It’s been a time of change for our family — filled with some rough times, but also sweet family fun, exciting transitions and 3-year-old towhead who is trying his darndest to pee in the potty.

As of today, we have eight days to get you fully potty trained. You’ll be starting your new preschool in just over a week, now that Grandma B has closed her preschool after more than 30 years. She opened the school when your Daddy was just a little boy and ended it with her last grandchild. Daddy and I are so excited for the good times ahead for her in retirement.


Our intention was to send you to a different preschool — one more aligned with the Montessori education you (and we) were used to, and one that didn’t require stubborn 3-year-olds to be fully potty trained. The school was 20 minutes from our house, but we could make the drive work because it was on the way to both of our jobs.

However, in November, Daddy was laid off, meaning that the company for which he worked decided he and a few dozen of his colleagues were no longer needed. This was — and still is — a shock to us. The severage package was insulting (in my opinion), and it happened just before the holidays.

We decided we couldn’t enroll you in that preschool we loved, not knowing where Dad would ultimately land a new job and not feeling financially confident to pay the up-front fees and tuition. The idea of finding you an acceptable preschool with an open spot on such short notice seemed terrifyingly impossible.


But, Serendipity was on our side. We received a call from our back-up preschool where you’d been on the waiting list since April. It’s five minutes from our house and doesn’t require exorbinant pre-enrollment fees. They had one opening starting in January, and would we like it?

While I am so grateful for this turn of events, and love many things about this new school, I have some worries (shocking, I know). Potty training aside, you will be the youngest student in the entire school — younger than Charlie was when he started a new preschool. I’m trying to remind myself that I was just as nervous when Charlie made the transition and he turned out fine. But you’re just so little! Will you be OK without me? Will you be able to keep up? Will the older students let you play with them?


The curriculum is traditional and very structured. I’ve seen how children, and you especially, thrive in the Montessori environment, and I just don’t like the idea of designated blocks of time for different types of learning. Also, when we visited, the puzzles the kids used were really simple, and it didn’t seem like one of the teachers had any control over the class while we were there.

Ugh, I know I sound like a judgy asshat. I know I need to reel it in. You will be fine. You loved the classroom when we visited, especially the fire truck on the playground and the play kitchen inside. The head teacher seems wonderful and loving. You will be fine.


Our family will be fine, too. While Dad continues searching for a job, I was offered a promotion at mine. I’ll never forget coming home that night and getting big hugs from Dad and Charlie. Then you ran around the corner, flung out your arms, and yelled, “CON-GWAD-DOO-LAY-TONS!”

While Christmas was more low-key than other years, it was filled with such sweet moments. We went on nightime walks around the neighborhood to check out the lights. Grandma Z helped us trim our tree while we listened to Christmas music. We watched the “Cars” movie a hundred million times. Our dear, former neighbors took us to the Zoo. You rolled the dice for Uncle Pete during our family’s famous marbles game. We all decorated, then devoured, ice cream snowmen at Grandma B’s. You fell asleep in my arms as I sang you, “Silent Night.”


The list goes on. While there’ve been some rough moments over the past few months, what is always true is how lucky we are to be a family. Regardless of what happens, we have each other.

My dear sweet boy, I look forward to all the adventures — potty, preschool or otherwise — that await us in 2018.


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