This is a late post but that seems appropriate since we are late to everything these days, which drives me nuts. I hate being late. I once yelled at one of my sisters when she fell off her bike on the way to school because her bleeding knee was making us late. Not my finest moment. But time has no meaning for you. You know that you are not supposed to get up until 7.00 but this does not stop you from calling for me from anywhere between 6.15 and 6.45 so I go downstairs and get into bed with you and the next 15 to 45 minutes go something like this.
You: Mama! I want to look in your ear. I want to be a doctor.
Me: Luke. Lie down and be quiet. It isn't 7.00
Blessed silence for 15 seconds
You: Mama! I need some water!
Me: Your water is next to your bed on the floor.
You: Ohhh! Yes! I love water. Water. Water. Water. Mama, want some water?
Me: No, thank you.
You: Want some? Want some? Mama, wantsome?Wantsome?Wantsome?Wantsome?Wantsome?
Me: No, thank you Luke. Thank you for asking. I really don't want any water. I want you to lie down and be quiet.
Repeat until 7.00
You: Oh! It's seven zero zero! It's time to get up! Mama! Yeaahhh! Mama! It's time to get up. C'mon Mama. C'mon. Let's go!
Me: OK, time to get up. Do you want to use the potty?
You: No thank you.
Exit stage left. Go upstairs. Start heated discussion over who will pour the milk out of the very heavy glass milk container.
In spite of your rush to get up in the morning, you seem to be in no hurry whatsoever to get out the door. There are many pitched battles over getting dressed, putting on your jacket, walking up the stairs, deciding which door we will actually use to exit the house, opening the driveway gate, getting down the driveway to the car and then the ordeal of getting into the car. You can now climb into your car seat by yourself, which is great because it is less strain on my back but it's quite a process for you and if I try to hurry you, you insist on starting the entire ritual again from the beginning. I am sure our neighbors hate us for the number of times they have had to listen to you have a breakdown in the driveway. They may also hate us soon because we finally got chickens and the chickens will move outside in a month.
After talking about it for such a long time, we finally took the plunge and got five tiny baby chicks. Your friend Leta and Marlo's (or as you refer to them: Yeeta and Marwoe) mother, whom you now always refer to as Mrs. Armstrong (which pleases me and cracks me up) documented it much better than I could. You can read about our first day with the chickens here. You didn't end up naming any of the chickens because you still don't get the concept of naming things even though I tried to explain it to you about five dozen times. The naming aside, you love the chickens and love to talk to them and hold them. Your favorite is Maisie and she is pretty tolerant of you yelling in her face, "She's a little bit nervous Mama!"
My computer broke a few weeks ago. It was starting to get a little shaky with the screen flickering off and on for no apparent reason although I have my suspicions as to who the culprit might be of the "liquid damage," that finally caused the computer screen to switch to grey permanently. In any case, I spent a few weeks fretting and trying not to freak out over the fact that I might have lost every last picture I had taken of you in the last two and half years. When my new computer arrived and we were able to transfer everything off of the external hard drive and all those pictures popped back up I cried I was so relieved. I might have cried because I was so tired from all the sleep I had lost worrying about the photos but I also cried because to lose all those would have been the absolute worst. Another added bonus was that my phone finally backed up properly and I was able to download all the video I have taken of you for the last year or so.
Looking through all these videos made me cry even more because there is nothing like watching a video of your child to make you momentarily forget all the things that make you want to pull your hair out. In the two and half years since you were born you have imprinted yourself on my heart like the way my wedding ring has imprinted my ring finger. You are so much a part of my life, of my every breath that I find it impossible to imagine life without you. If I am out driving around and I see a firetruck I wish that you were there to see it too. I cannot read stories or see shows depicting children being hurt without the story immediately becoming the story of you being hurt. I feel like I cannot breath imagining you in the same situation. I have dreams about you falling into water, dreams of you being eaten by alligators and I wake up terrified that something has happened to you. I don't really live every moment in fear but the dreams come or the random thought drifts across my mind or I read a story of some terrible thing befalling some young child and I think, there but for the grace of God go I. At the end of the day when we are lying in bed before you go to sleep and you are telling me all the things you are going to dream about (triangles, whales, the ocean, steam engines, one car, two cars and mamas and dads) you sometimes spontaneously say, "you're the best mama in the world," and all the other unbearable stuff becomes bearable again.
So here is a snapshot of you and your life over the last year.
21 April 2011
You are two and a half and I have some lovely ideas rolling around my head but I cannot seem to commit them to the page. I promise not to miss this month though because you say all sorts of hilarious things now like after I asked you about singing a song about Jesus you learned at school, you pointed to my wine and said, "Jesus is in the wine." I replied that he might be but that you could figure that out for yourself in a few years. Oy vey. Time to get you to the JCC preschool.