Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Forty-Five Months: My Letter to Little Man

So the birthday countdown has begun. You regularly wake up in the morning to ask me if it's June yet, because as you say, after June comes July, then August then September, then October, then Newember, then December, and September is your birthday. Your need to mention all of the other months after your birthday, which I just praise the Lord that you weren't born in February, because my days would be filled with you rattling off the months of the year. So yes, your birthday is three months away, and already we've picked out the goodies for the goody bags, the theme and the games. The date's been set and so now, your excitement is palpable. Which means that the next three months are going to be really, really long for me.

Which isn't much different with how long the weeks are now that we've gotten a boat, where every day you ask me "are we going to ride the boat today?" and I have to remind you that we work and that we only ride the boat on weekends when there's no work or school. Your reply is always "is today the weekend?" which, I love you kid, but after a certain time there is only so much I can take explaining to you the concept of weekdays and work days, which quickly spirals into an extended episode of back and forths of you asking "why?", me answering, you asking "why" to my response, until it eventually results in me yelling something along the lines of "BECAUSE I NEED UNDERWEAR AND BEER!"



And every night, you like to remind me that "we didn't get to ride on the boat today," which, for the record? I KNOW THAT!

In fact, I think we need to discuss your non-stop talking. You know I love you, right? You know that because hopefully I say it often enough that you're sick of hearing it, but most of all, I hope you feel it to your core, even when I'm mad at you. But child, I swear that you were put on this Earth with the sole mission to make me go batty. You talk and talk and talk and talk. And you know what else you do? That's right, talk some more. You talk so much, that I've told you once or twice that there is not enough tequila in the world for me to keep listening to you talk so much. Which only prompts you to talk some more, so I've learned to just sit there and sob quietly as the verbal diarrhea that comes out of your mouth just sweeps me away. Your father calls it sweet payback, for all the years I've followed him around, turning his brain to mush with my incessant talking. Did I mention your father's a jerk? Don't turn into him, ok?



Speaking of your father, hunting season is over, which means animals everywhere are breathing a sigh of relief, but it also means your father is now always here. You seem to resent this, a little bit, not because you don't have fun with your dad, but because it means that you never get to sleep in my bed anymore, because the rules are strict, you sleep in your bed, unless your dad's out of town and then we have a big slumber party, which your brother will join as soon as he's old enough to join. You'll regularly ask me when your dad's gone to run errands for what seems like an eternity in your three-year old mind "Is Daddy not coming back?", but you always ask with this hopeful look in your eyes. Evil me, this always makes me want to giggle, and I remind you that it's not nice, that some kids don't have dads and you should be happy to have a dad to play with you and teach you to play baseball. Which has led you to ask me "do the kids with no dads get to sleep with their mommies all the time?" Uhm, missing the point, kiddo.

You can make your brother laugh harder than anyone. In fact, you've taken to tackling him, gently, so that you don't hurt him, and it makes your brother laugh so hard, that I sometimes think his little head is going to blow up. Your brother doesn't love anyone more than he loves you. He is in complete awe of him, and I love how kind you are to him. You've given him almost all of his nicknames, and we now have this game where you say goodbye to him every night and you call him these random names like "good night pizza head!" and I'll make Tiny Man reply back to you "Good night tomato head!" and we'll go back and forth like that until you're laughing so hard, you weave out of the room laughing like a little drunk man.



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After "buying" some aspirin at Walgreen's because they were free and a money maker for me.

"Is this medicine for me, Mama? I want to eat one.

- You can't, that's not for you. It's medicine for other people (since I'm going to donate them to a charity for the elderly).

- What's the medicine for, Mama?"

(after deciding that explaining that it's to help people with heart problems, since it's the baby aspirin kind, would be too difficult) "It's for old people.

- Are you old, Mama?

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After giving you a cookie that had 10 pounds of shrink wrap around it that had been given to me earlier in the day.

- Mama, I can't open this cookie. I'm only three years old, you know.

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You mysteriously began leaving your bed and your room in the past month, never in the middle of the night, but in the morning, when you wake up. What prompted you to do this suddenly is beyond me, when for almost two years now, you'd be terrified to even leave your bed to pee, and would wail at the monitor "I NEEEEED TO GOOOOO POOOOOTTTTYYYYYY!", but all of a sudden, I'll be in the kitchen, bleary eyed, trying to make myself a cup of tea, when I'll hear this quiet rustling behind me, and when I turn around, there you are, big blue eyes staring at me, your pet frog clutched in your hands. The first time you did it, I yelled so loud, that I practically scared you, but you have to understand that seeing a ghost in your place would have been less surprising. Because you? Are not a risk taker, in any way. Hell, you're the kid who for the longest time would ask me when I gave you any kind of sweets "can I eat it?", like if I would ever pull a cruel joke on you, like give you a cupcake, only to tell you that you can't eat it. I'm thinking that if we continue to have you break down walls of fear like this, by the time you're 21, you'll be willing to hug the mascot at our minor baseball team's games.



I know, I know, I'm talking crazy now. I shouldn't expect that to happen before your 30th birthday.

I just hope that this sudden rebellion doesn't lead you down a path of destruction that ends with you only wanting chocolate for breakfast. Because the worse thing that could happen to you, is to turn into me.

Well, maybe I didn't turn out so bad either.

By the way? This morning you told me you wanted to be a doctor. May I suggest plastic surgery? Mama could use a hook up for botox, I'm just sayin'.

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.

4 comments:

Kat said...

Hahaha! Oh my. He is just too cute. Funny about the boat. We bought a boat last summer and the boys are CONSTANTLY asking us when we are going on the boat again. Either that or the in-law's cabin. "When are we going up north?" Little farts. I wonder how they will take it when they find out we may be selling the boat. Yipes! ;)

Burgh Baby said...

The talking. OMG the talking. Why oh why oh why do our kids insist on being evil twins of each other? Other than the bits and pieces, of course. WHY OH WHY OH WHY?

I could try to answer my own question, but I seem to have run out of answers about a week ago. Now it's just, because I said so.

Harumph.

susan said...

OMG! He's gorgeous & a little man! *wah* Our babies aren't babies anymore.

Poltzie said...

Aww, little man is so cute!!