Dear Isobel:
Today, you’re 19 months old and though the last month has been our most challenging to date – I say this because the memory of colic and PPD have dulled and I just remember that it really really sucked – my OCD is telling me that this month will be even harder. It is, after all, a prime numbered month.
You, you’re doing as great as always. You’re coping with all of the changes and lack of routine and nothing’s really changing about you or your demeanor. So I know I’m not, at the moment, doing anything that’s going to cause me to pay for your therapy in 30 years. You’re still Ms. I’m the Boss and If I’m Uncomfortable, You’ll Know About It. And really, that’s a great thing.
I love that about you, that you’re never willing to just bend over and wilt. Though it’s not fun when you’re trying to beat up the wimpy kid at our playtime group because he wants the toy he had that you took from him, back. It also makes me think that your future boyfriends will be taken advantage of by you, not the opposite. Wait, that’s not a good thing, is it? Remind me to tell you all about birth control in about 10 years.
This month, you’ve exponentially increased your vocabulary, mimicking words I didn’t understand you understood. You will some times listen to my triple requests and decide the appropriate order to complete the tasks in. Your intelligence blows my mind sometimes. Like how you can’t say fox, so call your stuffed animal “Oh, man” because that’s what Swiper the Fox says. It’s like a magic mushroom ride sometimes, your logic, but you still have tons of it.
You still aren’t really calling me by my God-given name, Mommy, but you’re making progress towards it. And you’re finding my reaction funny when you trick me, “Mommma…..DADDY!” like it’s all one word. Ha ha.
The most frustrating thing about talking is that you have the ability to tell me what you’d like. So sometimes those half hour melt downs upon waking up are just the nipple-twist I cannot handle. There’s always something that you obviously you need so very very very badly as to cause litres of mucus to be projected from your mouth and nose. Case in point was the 42 minute freak out after your nap, when I did not know. that you. needed. to watch. Dora.
The worst part about those moments are that you don’t want to be alone or put down or not worshiped, yet I should not touch you. Or if I touch you, I shouldn’t hold you. If I do hold you, I should never sit down. Or lie down, god forbid. Because that’s when the fists and feet start flying and I just don’t know how to comfort a toddler when they don’t want to tell me the issue, yet want to commit matricide.
It’s true enough, I’ve had a hard time this past month. Your attitude has descended at some points to the same level as the kids they send to bootcamp on Maury Pauvich. And mine’s been so off the wall to start with that dealing with you in a gentle manner has been a rule, instead of a wish. Especially since “she hit me first” won’t fly.
I’ve been getting a little worried about that, lately. Your moods, I mean. Because just like the rest of your life, your swings are so much bigger – I don’t think grander is over-stepping the boundaries of language – and sometimes so much less warranted, than in any other child I’ve met your age. Except for your uncle Cam. And myself, apparently.
On the other end of the spectrum, you thinking something’s funny makes it funny 90% of the time. Especially when it’s something very unfunny – who knew dryer lint was so entertaining? And because your laughs out loud are so few and far between that I’ll do anything to hear them. They could cure cancer, your giggles.
But this is the amazing thing: with all of the biting, kicking, head butting, punching, slapping, glaring and disdain you’ve thrown my way this month, I’m still more in love with you than I was last month. That’s never happened to me, before you – unconditional, accepting love.
Besides making me the girl who gets to say thank you so often when strangers remark about your beauty and brains (and apologize when you give them a death glare), you’ve taught me that it is totally possible for this girl, me, to adore a creature so untameable and free-willed, without pause. Being with you has educated me on who I am as a person and I’ve gotten a little more self-respect out of the lesson.
I’ve also been getting a little nostalgic because time is just flying past us, and you’re not slowing down on anything except for eating. I’m surrounded by little babies and it makes me recall how heavy I thought you were at first and how my arms would start to shake from the exertion. I miss our cuddling times when you were breastfeeding and sleeping with me every night.
It’s some times hard to maintain that closeness, for both of us, I think. And I think we both want it, that intimacy we used to always have, but now we’re so ingrained into the daily get everything done grind, that we forget to ask for a kiss or hug outside of bedtimes and boo boos.
Nonetheless, on this 19th month birthday, I echo the words of last month’s and thank you, for loving me and allowing me to be yours.
Love,
MommaDaddy
