Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Forty-Eight Months: My Letter to Little Man

So here we are. Four years old. I'm not sure what happened, maybe I sneezed or blinked, maybe I even turned my head for a second. Whatever it was, all I know is that suddenly, you've become a child. One who's big and plays T-ball and states his opinion about everything and obsesses about signs and what they say and doesn't. ever. stop. talking.

Oh the talking. I know I've mentioned the talking before, but I could never talk enough about the amount of talking you do. If you were a cartoon strip, I would get smothered by your conversation bubbles in two frames flat. You can out-talk me, my child, which is freaking unbelievable, because I swear your father thinks I deserve a world record for my talking. And yet, the talking gene mutated when you were created and turned into this monster talking machine that favors the word 'why'.

My dreams are haunted by the why question. Hell, so are my days. I can't answer anything without you asking 'why?' as a follow up and there are days where I'll whip my head around to you in exasperation and you'll sigh and say 'ok, no more questions, Mommy.' Which by the way? How'd you get so great at making people feel like shit after you've practically given them an aneurysm from your endless questions? That's talent, right there! I always feel horrible when you say that, like I should prompt you to interrogate me for another 30 minutes, just for hurting your feelings.

Your love for your brother now knows no bounds. You've moved in with him, because you claimed you missed him too much at night to be away from him for that long. You continue to pepper him with kisses and in his eyes, you are the most amazing being there ever could be. Which is a pretty true assessment of you. You are amazing, smart, perceptive and hilarious when you choose to be.

You're so funny, that you have been most of my status updates on Facebook this past month (do they still have Facebook when you're reading this? Or are you shaking your head thinking about how embarrassing it is that your mother is infatuated with archaic techology like Facebook and the driven car). Some of my favorites include:

When asked what you wanted for your birthday: "I just want a present that when I open it, I go 'wow, that's really awesome!'"

About your little brother: "When is Tiny Man going to learn to get stuff for me?"

After all your friends left your 4th birthday party: "Well, I'm almost five now."

Me: "I'm keeping my fingers crossed."
You: "I can see your fingers, and they're not crossed.
- Well, they're crossed in my mind.
(sigh) - You don't have fingers in your mind."

You: "I'm going to marry (name of best guy friend from school) when I grow up."
Me: "Well, you live in Texas, where they say that a man has to marry a woman.
- Where can I get married then.
- You can get married in Canada.
- Fine then, me and (best guy friend from school) will go to Canada. And we'll get married in Canada. Will you come to my wedding?
- I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Although, you absolutely despise people laughing at your jokes, as you take everything so personally, to the point that I once yelled at you "WILL YOU FREAKING LIGHTEN UP? YOU'RE NOT EVEN FOUR YET, STOP ACTING LIKE AN 80-YEAR OLD!"

Your father says that you and I, we're like an old married couple, we bicker all the time, and yet it's obvious to anyone who knows us that there's a deep love and respect there. And that's probably true. And if I have to bicker with you for the rest of my life, then I'm ok with that, because every night, I kiss you goodnight and you squeeze me so hard, that my heart practically implodes.

You're an amazing child. We were at CVS the other day (no shocker there, we go to CVS so much, you practically know the aisles by heart) and the cashier that day, who is fairly new, said to me "You look like you're a good mom." The truth is? I'm not the good one. I'm just lucky enough to have you for a first-born. You make it look easy, kid. And I love that you make me look good. I hope I make you look good too.

One morning, you were watching me fumble with my eye shadow and you said to me "can I try?" I figured, what the hey, that's why they invented make up remover, right? Your first attempt was exactly what I expected: I looked like a clown with a black eye. I thanked you for your services. The next day, you came back in the bathroom and asked me if you could try again. Once again, I sat on the floor and let you have fun, my small attempt at imagining life with two girls would be like. You frowned and carefully applied the eye shadow with much concentration and then you nodded and told me you were done, and that I could take a look. When I looked in the mirror, I stared at my reflection stunned. You'd done a better job than I do.

And that's you in a nutshell. It doesn't matter what the activity is, if you try hard enough, you'll not only master it, but you'll master it better than the person you watched. It's no wonder your brother and I are so awed by you.

I love you, my Little Man,



Anonymous said...

I love Little Man, too!! He sounds fascinating and entertaining and witty....

4 years old. Boy sure has some nerve, huh?


Burgh Baby said...

I better be invited to that wedding. ;-)

Karen - Mommy to four sweeties said...

So sweet. I love your letters to your kids!

Susan said...

Excellent! I love the eye shadow story!

Loukia said...

Awww.. once again such a lovely post to your beautituful little guy! Happy birthday to him... 4 years old... wow... where has the time gone, huh?

A's Mom said...

Another year older. They grow up way too fast. Happy Birthday Little Man!