Letters to Charlie: On Turning 7

My dear boy,

Years ago, I was hired by a friend to photograph her seven-year-old daughter’s birthday. You were a baby then, maybe as old as Jack is now, and I remember thinking how big, how adult, all of the kids seemed at the party compared to my little guy at home.

Now, here we are. We just finished your seventh birthday party and I’m struck by the significance. Seven seems important. Seven seems serious. Like we’ve bid farewell to all things baby and landed solidly in Kid.

“Who told you that you could grow?” I joke with you when I realize you’re taller than the last time I paused to recognize it. You giggle and can’t tell that my heart is both aching and bursting with pride.

A word I’d use to describe your past year is bravery. You’ve always struggled with anxieties — fears that kept you from experiencing a lot of things kids enjoy. But I got my first glimpse of your budding resolve last summer at the county fair. From a distance you saw the Jumbo Slide and asked to ride on it, but realized the meaning of the word “jumbo” when we walked up.

“Mom, I’m scared,” you said, shakily.
“It’s alright, bud. Let’s try something else.”
“No, I’m going to do it.”

You grabbed the blanket and trudged to the top of the seemingly 20-story-tall slide as my heart felt faint. At any moment I expected you to turn around and head down, but you kept going, waited your turn in line at the top, then climbed aboard the blanket.

Your face was white with fear when you got to the bottom of the slide. “I don’t think I’ll do that again,” you said, affirmatively.

This bravery surfaced again during your first-grade production of “Traveling Through the Rainforest,” in which you proudly played Ant #3 (shout out to Dad, who made your costume). A year ago, getting you onstage was a challenge. This time? You sang and danced and recited lines about nasty developers cutting down trees in front of hundreds of parents.

You’re even more open to watching movies, which you’ve always avoided because of how overwhelmed you feel watching them. It took us four nights to get through “Trolls,” but we did it, even though you desperately wanted to stop the movie at the scariest parts.

And just the other day, at Savy’s birthday party, you nervously asked me to join you on the ferris wheel at Boomers. When they told me I couldn’t go (really, Boomers? I’d have to pay just to sit next to my scared kid?), tears filled your eyes, but you climbed aboard any way — and had a blast.

First grade went much smoother than kindergarten. You were assigned the “strict teacher,” which worried me initially because I was thought she would ignore your emotional needs (I recognize I sound a little helicopter-y here), but she was just what you needed.

It wasn’t all rosy; we encountered some behavioral challenges. Most were benign 6-year-old antics, but a few situations required parental and school intervention. Those were tough times (especially the month when we didn’t allow you to play with your best friend, Allie), but I’m hopeful you’ve learned from them.

I’m also hopeful you absorbed something from another big event this year: the presidential election. I wrote a letter to you and Jack once Trump was elected, so I won’t rehash the specifics of that time, but I was (and still am, honestly) in shock. I began to channel my anger and disbelief into action and brought you along to a few events.

First, we went to a gathering in Balboa Park to write thank-you notes to Hillary Clinton. Then we marched with 60,000 of our neighbors in downtown San Diego during the Women’s March. You were in a sour mood that day because the march kept you from seeing Allie. “I love Trump,” you grumbled as we walked through the streets.

This past year, you discovered your new love: soccer. Though Dad and I liked the structure and philosophy of karate, it never really stuck with you. Once you got on the soccer field, we realized why: no one can win in karate. You scored three goals your first game and never looked back.

Reading has also become a passion (yay!). This began when you realized we’d let you read at the dinner table instead of talking with Dad and I about your day. You’re now reading at a fourth-grade level and just tearing through chapter books. We let you stay up late to read on the weekends and often catch you with a flashlight under the covers on week days.

Other highlights from your sixth year:

• Lost teeth: Three! The first one popped out when you were eating fro-yo with gummy bears.
• Halloween costume: Spaceman Spiff. This was the second year in a row you’ve chosen a Calvin & Hobbes-inspired costume. At the school carnival, you were confused the other kids had no idea who you were, though a dad in line behind us for the Haunted House — who was dressed as Han Solo, natch — thought your costume was cool.
• Favorite dance move: The dab. I can’t take a photo of you without you dabbing.
• Favorite game: Slamwich
• Favorite video game: Trials Fusion
• Favorite TV show: Either “Dinosaur Train” or “Chuggington.” I love that you still like these sweet shows.
• Best friends: Though no one shines as brightly as Allie… Raeden and Cooper.
• Favorite of mom’s and dad’s buttons to push: ALL OF THEM
• Times you’ve forgotten your lunch bag at school: At least 30
• Favorite thing to pick up on the playground and stuff in your pockets: Hair ties
• Favorite fruit or vegetable: Hahahahaha!

My favorite memory from this past year may be our mutual love of “Hamilton.” It’s been so fun learning the words together, watching the videos, and singing songs in the car. Your favorites are “Ten Dual Commandments,” “Guns and Ships, and “The World Turned Upside Down” — basically anything that involves firearms and fighting.

You have such astonishing observations about the music. The other day, while listening to “Right Hand Man,” you told me the song made you feel like you were a hunter in the forest or deep under the ocean in a submarine. How poetic is that!

Charlie, year six really was the best so far. You’re such a smart, inquisitive, creative, interesting kid. Though I miss that you can no longer fit in my lap, I love that you still try at times. On some mornings, you slip your hand into mine as we walk to your classroom, and I try to keep you from hearing my gasp.

Back when you were rehearsing for your breakout role as Ant #3, you asked if you could sing me a song from the play  — “Under One Sky” — before bed. I kept it together until this verse:

Under one sky, there’s a baby’s cry
Under one sky, a mother’s lullaby
Under one sky we are all a part of everything

Because I remember a time, not too long ago, when you were that baby, and I was that mother singing you a lullaby. Now, there we were, lying next to each other in the dark, while you sang to me.

Being a parent — being YOUR parent — is a magical experience, Charlie. Age seven may seem important, it may seem serious, but it’s also incredibly joyous.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy.

Letters to Jack: Month 30

My dear Jack,

I woke up this morning to a sound that’s become all-too common in our household — you screaming at Charlie.

It was supposed to be Dad’s weekend morning to sleep in, but he gave me extra time in bed on account I’d been up for a few hours during the night with your brother.

At 2:30 a.m., Charlie woke up from a nightmare involving Iron Man, then his nose hurt, then he wanted warm honey water to ease a cough, then he needed answers to pressing questions like, “Do cats talk to each other but we can’t understand them?” and “How do people get blind?” and “Guess what toy in my room I like the best?” (Answer: A plasma light ball that Uncle Dan and Aunt Rhianna gave Charlie for Christmas)

I snoozed, and you and Dad had a calm morning — until Charlie stumbled out. I’m not sure what officially happened, but it was either a) Charlie touched something you were playing with, b) Charlie touched some part of your body, c) Charlie spoke words to you, or d) Charlie looked in your direction.

I know siblings don’t always get along (heck, Uncle Dan threw a dart INTO MY EYE when we were kids), but the incessant screeching drives me batty. You’re 2.5 years old — without the language to describe your emotions — so screaming is your first defense, followed increasingly by hitting. Part of me doesn’t blame you, as Charlie is a royal instigator who knows just how to push your buttons, but we can’t have you smacking him around. So, there’s been an increase in time-outs in our house.

When you use words to assert yourself, you repeat the phrases Dad and I speak when admonishing Charlie. But you say them in that sweet, I-can’t-pronounce-consonants-well toddler voice, so they sound darling: “You not powees!” (police) … “Top eet, Chwarwles!” (Stop it, Charles) … “You woos chips!” (lose)

You two don’t always fight. The other night, Dad and I sat on the couch for 20 minutes watching you and Charlie howl with laughter as you rocked back and forth on a fold-down chair. You love when Charlie chases you around and smacks your butt (Fun fact: That’s how your Dad scored me). Or when he reads to you. And you both share an extreme love for “Dinosaur Train.”

Your attitude toward Charlie illustrates your place in time, squarely in the Toddler Years. You bit one of your classmates twice in one week. We thought we were making headway on potty training, but you decided this didn’t interest you any more.

And one night you cried the entire way home from Target for no discernable reason (although I think the nap you avoided taking all day had something to do with it).

Yes, your emotional brain far outweighs your logical brain. I received a call from your Dad last night when I was out to dinner with Ash. “Can you please tell Jack that you’re OK? He’s hysterical.” Apparently, you saw my regular purse hanging in the kitchen and couldn’t understand how I could be somewhere without it and still be alive. Ash and I FaceTimed you outside of the restaurant so I could hold up the black purse I chose for the evening. Look, I’m alright, Jack. I have another purse!

You may fight with Charlie, but you’re always sweet to me. As you get older, I keep thinking you’ll grow out of wanting to hug, snuggle and nuzzle me. Thankfully, you still seem to need these times just as much as I do.

The other day, you wrapped your arms around my neck and held onto me for several minutes, without leaving. I took a moment to soak you in, feeling completely whole, completely happy.

Just this morning, when I finally made my way out to the living room, you gasped when you spotted me, jumped off the couch and ran into my arms. “Mommy!” Sometimes you wake up and your first words are, “I want cuddles!” (which I prefer to your second most common request: “Have iPad time?”)

On a preschool application we recently filled out, Dad and I were asked to describe your personality. I remember answering this question when Charlie began preschool, and I was struck by the difference. For Charlie, I used words such as strong-willed, opinionated, and passionate; my answers for you were gentle, loving, helpful.

In fact, “Me help you?” is one of your most frequent requests. Your eyes light up when the washing machine chimes, because you know you’ll get to help move the wet clothes into the dryer. Your favorite day of the week is Tuesday because that means we get to put out the garbage in the morning and wheel the cans back in at night.

You are such a bright light in my life, my dear boy. You help me feel centered and remind me to enjoy this time as your mother. And your zest for life is infectious. One morning a few weeks ago, you ran into the living room, looked around at the sun streaming through the windows, and cried out, “Oh boy! It’s morning!!!”

Now, that’s something we should scream about in this house more often.

Letters to Jack: Month 28

My dear boy,

I’m writing this letter on our last night at the cabin. Both you and your brother are in bed, but by no means asleep. Charlie is old enough to sleep in the loft, and I can hear him slowly turning the pages of his book in hopes that we don’t hear him trying to read by the light from downstairs. (I’m totally letting him get away with this.)

You, on the other head, are shouting from our bedroom:

MILK.
I WANT MIIIIIIIIIILK.
MIIIIIIILK.
MAY I HAVE SOME MILK….PLEEEEEEEEASE.

As you can probably guess, we’ve entered the phase of your development when you demand things (although, as you can see from above, you’re polite about it). “Mom, look at me!” has become a familiar refrain, as well as, “I said nooooo!” when I’ve asked you more than once to do something. This morning you told me, “I’m busy,” when I said it was time to change your diaper.

I mentioned in my last letter that you began asking me to rub your back during dinner and would yell if I stopped. Awww, he loves me so much, I thought. What a sweetie! Within weeks, this became a GIANT battle at the dinner table, one still not completely resolved. You wailed —louder and louder — each time I took my hand away. On several occasions, we moved you to the other side of the table because you kept lunging toward me, knocking over your dinner, peas everywhere.

I stopped altogether, and Dad and I explained to you that I needed my hands for dinner. You wouldn’t have any of it and went on a few hunger strikes.

Our current compromise is that either Dad or I will rub your back when we finish dinner. You watch our plates like a hawk, ready to shout RUB MY BAAAAACK the moment our last bite is gone. So, dinner is still a work in progress.

We saw the advent of “time outs” these past few months. The pattern is usually the same: You do something deemed unacceptable (throwing food, kicking someone, hitting the cats, etc.). We explain the appropriate behavior. You do it again. We again explain the correct behavior and give a time-out warning if you continue incorrect behavior. You tilt your head, stare us down with a glint in your eye, and do the thing again while we’re watching.

But, with testing of limits also comes burgeoning curiosity. Wha happen?, you ask about everything. Or, Mommy, wha dis?

We’re getting close to transitioning to a toddler bed. Earlier this week, when fighting bedtime (I said noooo!), you lunged over your crib and toppled out. Thankfully, I was there to catch you, but shouted out in surprise and fear so loudly that I made you cry.

Dad remarked this probably bought us a few more months, but as soon as you woke up the next morning, you asked to do it again. Sigh.

You are getting so, so big. You’ve decided the high chair is no longer acceptable, so now you’re using a booster seat. As soon as I set up the Pack & Play in the cabin, I knew we might be in for a rough night. How could you have grown so much since the last time we used it?! I clearly remember you being able to stretch out in that thing. Now it’s like fitting you in a tiny cardboard box —knees and elbows everywhere.

You whined all night until I brought you into bed with Dad and me at 3 a.m. Then you spent the next two hours shoving me toward the bitter edge of the mattress. I had to pee like hell, but knew you’d start screaming if I moved.

Ugh. Co-sleeping has never been a thing for this family.

This letter is getting long, so I’m going to quickly run down a few more happenings :

• For a few months, we’ve been trying to teach you how to spit after brushing your teeth. You haven’t grasped the fact that you can’t swallow to make spitting successful. At some point, Dad began saying, “Pour one out for your homies,” when spilling out the leftover water. So now you say, “Pour out. Homies!” when we empty your cup.

• After your baths, we wrap you up tightly in a towel and parade you around the house singing the Breakfast Burrito song.

• You are your father’s son when it comes to spicy. At lunch today, I watched you pour a ton of hot pepper flakes on your pizza and eat it like it was no big deal. Such pride in your father’s eyes. Such pride.

• You marched with us in the local Women’s March. Well, strollered. Anyway, I hope one day you are happy you were there.

• You echo the last thing you’ve heard. If Dad asks Charlie to put on his jacket, you’ll say, “Jacket, Cha-wee,” several times until he does it. I realized the danger in this when listening to a snarky Bachelor podcast one day on the way home. “Marry whores!” you shouted from the back seat. “MARRY WHORES!”

(Note: I realize the poor juxtaposition of those last two bullets.)

Since my last letter, we’ve celebrated Christmas and New Year’s. The big wins from Christmas include a wooden truck from Grandma B (“Mover”), a stuffed Elmo from Grandma Z, a series of Pete the Cat books from Ashleigh (groovy), and a counting train puzzle from your aunt and uncle.

The most unexpected gain was a giant tub of cars that Grandma B Santa initially gathered for Charlie. He proudly announced he was too old to play with toy cars, so the whole lot went to you.

Those cars are endless fun for you. One by one, you take them out of the box and place them into perfect rows. Or you have them talk to one another and give cuddles. They go everywhere with us — in the car, to restaurants, to Grandma B’s school (well, at least to the front door). A few times, I’ve let you sleep with one or two.

Nothing can beat New Year’s, however. I took you and Charlie to Krystal’s house, and during the 9 p.m. East Coast countdown, you discovered the utter magic of counting from 10 to one (well, in your case, from one up to 10-ish) at New Year’s. So, you stood in front of everyone and did it again (cheer), and again (cheeeer) and again (cheeeeer!).

My dear, sweet boy. When I think of spending all of 2017 by your side, all I can do is cheer, too.

Letters to Jack: Month 26

My sweet son,

The wind is gusting, the clouds are gathering, and there’s a chill in the air (for SoCal, that’s a wintery 59 degrees). I am typing on the couch next to our Christmas tree with a purring cat on my lap. The house is quiet — Charlie is at a friend’s house, you are napping and Dad is out getting last-minute groceries for Christmas.

In short, things are pretty perfect.

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and Christmas with you and your brother is just the best. This year, you are totally into the lights, which is my favorite part of the season. You recognize Santa. You love to say “Ho, Ho, Ho.” And you rearrange your favorite ornaments on the tree every night.

Your gifts tomorrow will include your favorites — books, puzzles, trucks. So many trucks. I still don’t understand how toddlers learn to differentiate construction vehicles. I have no idea how to tell a backhoe and an excavator apart, but you sure do.

You’re becoming much more imaginative with your truck play. You have them say hi to one another (“Hello, garbage truck. Hello, fire truck.”), then we drive them around the living room side by side.  Sometimes you make the trucks “read” books to you. This morning, you gave one of your diggers a bath in your cereal bowl.

I’m still loving your cuddles. It’s the one reason I don’t get angry when, like today, you wake up before 5:30 a.m. This morning it was still dark, so I wrapped us up in a blanket next to the twinkling Christmas tree. You drank a cup of milk and I listened to the wind and rain.

I so cherish your chill. It’s such a different experience from Charlie’s toddler years. This struck me recently during a trip to the Wild Animal Park with some of your schoolmates and their mamas. Their kiddos were pretty rambunctious. There was lots of crying. I think at one point they tore a palm frond off a tree. You climbed into one of the strollers, leaned back, and just watched the chaos unfold. Wow, I thought. I’m the one who has it easy!

One of your new demands is that I rub your back during dinner. For the most part, this is adorbs, but sometimes I need two hands to eat dinner, or turn the page on a book, or take that well-deserved sip of wine. This is NOT OK with you. “MOMMY, RUB BACK!…..RUB BAAAAAACK.”

You’ve also begun putting your hand down my shirt when I pick you up. And not just under the collar — waaaay down. I forgot to warn Grandma Z about this, and you sure surprised her during a recent trip to the mall!

The other day you burped and said, “Farted. Mouth.”

Since your birthday, we’ve celebrated Halloween and Thanksgiving. For Halloween, I continued the theme of dressing you in costumes that include the word “jack.” You were Jack, and Dad was your beanstalk. I was a cow. (Last year, you were the cutest lumberjack ever).

This year we let you ring doorbells and collect candy with Charlie. You were confused at first, but quickly discovered the thrill of holding a bag open and having something dropped into it. You refused to let anyone else hold it, even when the bag was practically dragging on the ground.

I’ve mentioned before, but you really like order and routine. Sometimes you decide a thing has to be a certain way and woe to anyone who thinks otherwise. While trick-or-treating, you decided you had to hold one of your grandmas’ hands. We could not walk from one house to another before you had a firm grip on the grandma of your choice — which changed several times during the evening.

The other day while reading a book on the couch, you noticed our hallway closet was slightly ajar. “DOOR OPEN!!!” you shrieked, then sprung off the couch to close it. Once that was done — and the world was once again in order — you came back and settled in for the rest of the story.

My favorite moment from the past few months happened the night Charlie asked if he could sleep in your room. I told Charlie I wasn’t sure how you’d react, as this was during a phase when you cried every time we left your room at night. But, we set up Charlie’s bed, read books together, tucked everyone in and turned off the light.

Through the monitor, I heard you and Charlie talking softly in the dark. The thought of you sleeping next to one another, keeping each other company, filled my soul with such joy. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any more love, I heard Charlie say, “If you want to cry, Jack, just remember that I’m right next to your bed. You can hold my hand.”

Merry Christmas, my two beautiful boys. You have my heart forever.

 

 

 

 

A Letter to My Boys: On Election Results and Finding Your Voice

Dear Charlie and Jack,

Even before you came into our lives, I knew I wanted sons. Having a daughter would’ve been amazing, but deep down I felt there was a bigger calling — an opportunity to raise good men.

A good man (like your Dad) is honest, kind and respectful. He adores — and is faithful — to his partner and family. He is patient, open-minded and thoughtful. Confident, yet humble.

So, you can imagine how I felt a few nights ago, watching as our country chose its next President, a man who demonstrates none of those values — and is proud of it. Like millions of parents, I was awake into the early hours wondering how to break the news to you, Charlie. (Jack, you’re still a little guy and probably believe either Elmo or Hamilton is in charge.)

You may only be six years old, but you’ve been part of election discussions in our house for the past year. We watched the debates at dinner, we explained how our beliefs align with our candidate and also why we think others might believe differently (Dad is better at this than I am). We asked questions about what you thought. When your friend came over and shouted “Hillary SUCKS!,” we told both of you that petty name-calling was never acceptable.

So, on that gloomy, post-election morning I crawled into your bed and told you calmly that Hillary did not get enough votes and that Donald Trump would be our president. (Dad was on a biz trip, so this discussion was mine).

“But….? He’s so mean!”

We’ve had a few discussions since then. You wondered whether Donald Trump was a bully in first grade. When you asked if I hated him, I told you I mostly felt sorry for him; people who treat others so poorly usually don’t like themselves very much. I said I was sad about the people who voted for him — either because they agreed with the way he treats people or because they didn’t care enough about those who were the target of his behavior.

Like many of my friends, I’ve been in a fog this week. Shocked, for sure. Sad, undeniably. But I’m moving through the phases of grief closer and closer to anger.

I’m angry at myself.

I’m embarrassed for not thinking this could happen. For sheltering myself in a progressive bubble where everyone thinks like me. For my naivety about the deep-roots of racism, jingoism and sexism in this country.

I feel shame for doing absolutely nothing to affect the outcome of this election. I didn’t donate, make calls, sign petitions or walk neighborhoods. I went to one community meeting about racial justice, but stopped going because — god, this is so humiliating to admit — the meeting conflicted with the day my friends and I usually watch “The Bachelorette.”

This stops now.

My boys, you may be too young to remember anything about this election, but this will be the point in your lives when you begin to see your mother act.

Checks will be written. Groups will be joined. Work will be done.

And soon, hopefully, you’ll want to join, too. Because being a good man — especially one with your skin color — also means having the courage to fight against injustice and work toward equality.

Let’s go.

Letters to Jack: Turning 2

My dearest, precious boy,

Sometimes I find myself wondering, Gosh, could I love you even more? I know it sounds sappy, but my heart swells when I think of you. You are so sweet and so funny and just seeing your little legs dangle off the chairs in our house sends me into a spin.

And now, you’re 2! Two years of such joy at having you in our lives. Two years of hugs and snuggles. And kisses and smiles.

You’ve started doing this thing where, out of the blue, you shout, “HUG YOU!,” and wrap your arms around my neck (::insert swoon::). If you want a cracker or a piece of cheese, you always ask if Charlie can have one, too. You burrow into my lap when we read books, trying to get as close to me as physics will allow.

Books — you are crazy for them right now. Each night before bed, you choose five books  and line them up perfectly on the dresser next to your rocking chair. I tell you we can only read three, but OMG FIVE OF THEM HAVE TO BE UP THERE.

You know many of the words to your favorites books and echo them with such joy and pride. I couldn’t stop laughing earlier this week when we opened to a page with ducks and you squealed “DUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” like it was the most exciting moment of your life. I get you; I’m like that around cake.

Your birthday party on Sunday was puzzle-themed, because you’re a bit obsessed with — and good at — them. You finished a 56-piece puzzle at Grandma B’s school with minimal help a few weeks ago, which impressed the heck out of her. She suggested we look beyond our neighborhood preschool when we enroll you in January 2018. #smartkid #proudgrandma

Your vocabulary is stellar, too. You pick up words quickly, like today when I muttered shit under my breath several times before your yearly check-up (I’d forgotten something at home) and you shared your new word with the receptionist. Your name for Charlie has evolved, too; “Doe” turned into “Doe-ee,” which somehow jumped to “Tah-wahls.” Brain development is weird.

Your new favorite question is “Why?” Jack, we have to put on your shoes. Why?! Jack, you have yogurt all over your hair. Why??!?!? When you want to show me something across the room, you grab my hand, matter-of-factly say “Walking,” and off we go.

You’ve discovered garbage trucks, tow trucks, and trains, and now all you want to do is watch YouTube videos on my phone (“Garbage Truck…. Video…. Phone…. Now.”), or play vehicle-themed games on my iPad.

I couldn’t avoid this on a recent airplane trip — your first one! — to and from South Carolina because smartphones/tablets are the universe’s gifts to parents on airplanes. But, you can’t use them on takeoff and landing, which was the worst thing to ever happen to you. And probably the passengers sitting near us.

In general, I’m OK with occasional use of screens, but you can become nutso real quick. You’ll watch a video of garbage trucks for 15-30 seconds, then scream “NOOOOOOOOO!” and demand to see a tow truck. I’ll turn on a tow truck and you’ll demand garbage trucks RIGHT THIS SECOND. I’ve started hiding my phone because ain’t nobody got time for that.

Side note: You mimic Dad and say “ad” every time an advertisement comes on YouTube. His marketer-eyes shine with pride when he hears you. Maybe you two can open an agency one day.

Jack, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to be a mom — to both you and Charlie. I thought my heart might burst when you gave each other a big hug the other day while dropping Charlie off at school.

He said, Love you, Jack.
Wuv you, you replied.

I especially love Saturday mornings, when you scramble onto the couch and sit side-by-side to watch “Sesame Street.” When the Letter/Number of the Day songs come on, you both jump up on the cushions and dance like no one can see you. You fall into my lap and we laugh and laugh.

I really couldn’t love you two even more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letters to Jack: Month 22

Hello, sweet boy,

Out and about last weekend, Grandma B watched you toddle after your Dad and Charlie and said what the entire universe was thinking, “He’s so cute, I can hardly look away.” The adorableness is beyond right now — a combo of your silly faces, awkward motor skills, big blue eyes, and undecipherable, yet fast-expanding vocabulary.

Dad and I spent most of one night trying to figure out what “ho-hee” meant. You repeated it several times, then looked at us expectantly like we owed you money. “Ho…heee?” we echoed. You giggled at our foolishness, then offered a look of pity that I’m sure we’ll see again when you’re a teenager.

It wasn’t until you lunged onto my back like the Vitruvian Man that we figured it out. The light went off. Oooooooh, horsey! 

Duh, mom. I’ve been saying that all night.

And so goes our our time together. You repeat everything you hear and string words together to form three-word sentences (e.g., “Mommy, hat on”). Instead of yes, you curtly nod and respond, “huh.” You are confident saying — and screaming — no.

“Heavy” is your descriptor for anything big. (“Mommy, truck. Heavy.”… “Mommy, train. Heaaaaaavvvvy.”)

You know most of your colors, with your favorite being blue, just like Mom. Dad counted up to seven tonight, and you answered, “Eight!” In the parking lot at work, you saw the word “SLOW” and recited the phonetic sound of each letter.

One unexplained development is your name for Charlie: “Doe.” We can’t figure this one out; Charlie sounds nothing like Doe! Grandma B thought you might be saying “go,” but we’ve heard it in context too many times to think otherwise.

We’ll hear you puttering after Charlie through the house, calling “Doe?… Doe?…Doe?!” He’ll yell back, “STOP CALLING ME DOE MY NAME IS NOT DOE!!!!”

You composed your first song a few weeks ago. While walking across the street to pick up Charlie from Allie’s house, you began singing, “Dooo, dooo….Aaa-wee….doo, doo….Aaa-wee.” I tried to get you to perform when we arrived, but you were distracted by her stairs.

Speaking of movement, you love to run (often on your tippy toes) and squeal while you’re doing it. You’ve learned how to climb up Charlie’s bunk bed, which is the closest I’ve come to a coronary. Charlie keeps encouraging you to do it because he thinks it’s funny to see me sweat.

I can’t tell if you’re getting along better with your brother. You’ve calmed down on the jealously when he’s near me, and you love when he chases you around the house, but you scream as loud AF if he gets in your space or takes something away that you want. The other morning, there was so much shrieking in our house that I wanted to invite smooching teenagers over for a reality check.

Your grandmas are so happy spending time with you. You still love to cuddle in the morning, even though your legs and arms have long outgrown my lap. You ask for my hand while walking down the street and your palm feels so tiny and perfect in mine.

My favorite parts of the day are when we first see each other in the morning and when I pick you up after work.

Your face lights up, you stretch out your arms and shout, “Mommy!”

And all I can say is, “Heavy.”