The maintenance guys in my building are pretty…different. They’re a married coupla guys who’ve been together for over a decade. One of them, the one you’d assume was unfriendly because of his hulking grizzly features, will have a half hour conversation at any point of the day. Really nice. His husband is seemingly more moody. I’ve never thought he liked me, he’s the main fixer guy around here and I think he’s frustrated by shit a lot. It shows easily.

So me and him will occasionally exchange hellos or some random unimportant comment, and I’ll get him to write me rent receipts and unclog my bathroom sink, but other than that, we rarely talk to each other. We’re just two passing ships.

Imagine my surprise the other day when I was battling Isobel to go up the stairs and he came into the building’s lobby. Isobel being the kiddo she is, she was all, “Hi HIIIII HIIIIIIII! PAY ATTENTION TO ME, I’m speaking in tongues with you,” and he stopped.

And he started trying to chat with her and asked me how old she was, now.

“She’ll be two in July.”

“Yeah, I thought so. She’s way ahead of _____” (kiddo of neighbour mommy “friend,” who really just started talking even though he’s three and a half. The mommy I complain about sometimes being too harsh and handy with her kiddo. The one that started shit with me on my birthday. The compulsive liar.)

“Um, well *thinks that this might get back to her and will be representative of me being a shit disturber* he was better than Isobel at this age at motor skill stuff, like walking up the stairs, as you can see.” *pointedly glaring at Isobel*

“Maybe, but you really don’t have to make excuses. I think that’s what happens when you actually talk to your kids, instead of yelling at them. Isobel talks so much, it really says something.”

Yes, I am gloating. Cuz, well, it feels really nice when people say something about her that I can take pride in, and some thing that says they think I’m a good mama. And on a low-person level, it feels really good that a virtual stranger who doesn’t seem to like me much thinks I’m doing a better job than this “friend” of mine. Who spends so much of her time talking about what all of the other parents are doing wrong, it makes me wanna puke.

But really, I have learned a lot from her.

If you slap first and then putting your kiddo in 20 minute time out, they will be scared of you so that they flinch, sometimes. Which means they might not act out as much, but when they do, it invariably is quite violent.

Apparently, if a two year old refuses to share, you can give him time outs, take away his toys and spank him into learning about it - never mind the fact that he’s not developmentally ready to understand that toys will come back, eventually.

And my favourite? If a kiddo is resistant to potty training at 2 and a half? Put them in underwear and take them out for the entire day and the pure embarrassment and discomfort of walking around with shit and piss in their pants will learn ‘em. And if it doesn’t? Keep doing it. That was advice to another mommy “friend” about how to get her daughter to go on the potty when she refused to try.

Yeah, I may be quite the judgmental cow sometimes, but doesn’t this shit just seem wrong?

So I don’t feel that bad about gloating.

Dear Isobel:

Yup, it happened. Life, baby #2, the flu, eating and sleeping all served to push the date far from my mind and I completely missed your 21st month’s birthday. I haven’t put a little line on the wall to show how much you’ve grown since March, I haven’t weighed you to see why my back aches so much and I haven’t once said happy birthday.

Hopefully the semi-daily cupcakes I’ve been bribing you with will have a cumulative effect, so that you don’t attribute this slip of memory to my not loving you. Cuz that is so far from the truth.

I’ve just been ignoring you, alot.

And that will end soon, I promise. Because pretty soon, I think you’re going to start ignoring me - in a more grandiose spectrum than the one involving not having your diaper changed. I see that you’re nearing the peak of the twos. (Um, a few months to a year early, but when have you ever done anything on time besides be born?) Not getting your way now means you plunk your booty on the floor and protest loudly and confidently.

And I walk away every time, leaving you to your anger so that it doesn’t awaken mine. I even smile a little at your assuredness of your right to the scissors, paints, daddy’s beer, keyboard, my makeup (though I suppose, one of us should be wearing it), my dirty underwear, and more inane things that just do not belong in your clutches.

In the last month, your want to communicate is just staggering. From “I gotta go outside” to “Mommy poops” and “My baby,” it all serves to make me proud since you’re doing what I’ve been asking you to do since you were born - just tell me what you want. Yes, I picked up on what different cries and strains and faces or body language meant, but life would’ve been so much more simple if you’da just said, “Mom, I’ve got some goddamn gas from the three cups of coffee you had today and then piped into me via your humongous boobs” at birth.

Seriously.

And a few of months ago, you could say all of the basic words: snack, juice, nigh night, poop, hug. And then some. So I found it drove me completely up the effing wall when you’d just explode into a pile of toddler screams and snot because there was something going on. But you wouldn’t tell me what. And on those really fun-filled days, it seemed like you were just being a jerk about it.

Like I was supposed to play some guessing game to find out what was wrong, or something. Oh wait, I was. It’s in my job description and the duty will likely last into your adulthood.

This is the point that I kick myself in the shins and think, “and I’m going to do this with a second one, too?”

But then, I think of all of the times I was sitting in a chair beside you, reading while you watched Dora or Blue or Elmo, and you crawled on my lap, took my cheeks in your hands and kissed me. Sometimes, it was even without tongue. And then you laid your head on my shoulder and wrapped your arms around my neck and patted my back, saying, “Otay, mama, Otay.”

And then I realize that I may have forgotten your 21-month birthday, in part cuz of baby #2, but baby #2 will be screwed over cuz you have broken my heart with love and pride so many times, there just might not be anything for her or him to break, themself.

I love you, monkey-princess,

Mama

PS - With all this new language and some lack of proper pronounciation, would you mind tuning down your version of ‘hippo’ when we’re walking around the ‘hood? Cuz I don’t want the neighbours to think I’ve been teaching you to call them homos.