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A day later

Posted on July 26, 2008
Filed Under love letters, terrible twos |

Dear Isobel:

Yup, told ya I’d be back. While you did not slap me across the face today, you did bite me in the shoulder, kick my shins a few times and poke me in the eye repeatedly with your sunglasses. I think this was an improvement. Obviously, I’m lowering the bar, here, honey.

So, in honour of your second birthday, I’m going to talk about who you are today. Because it seems like I woke up a short while ago and you were a person and not just a reflection of myself, at your age. And though I realize that you’ve always been your own person, I see so much less of myself or your father in you now. I see you.

You know what you want, when you want it and you want it now. So much so that I cannot tell you what the future holds because you will expect the chicken to be cooked, your dad to walk in the door or a birthday party at that moment.

When you’re making a choice - and you make a lot of choices, for a two year old, I think - you will put your finger to your pursed lips and say, “um.” This just started about two days ago, but it’s one of the cutest quirks I’ve seen, to date. I have no idea where you learned to mull things over in such a way, nor so carefully. But to you, whether you have milk or a juice box is very important and requires about 30 seconds of decision making. This shows me that you’re not ready to drive or operate dangerous machinery, yet.

You’re a slave to routine but totally against having decisions made for you. You’d like to decide your routine, it seems. Now, we both know that if we let that happen, your day would be something like this: Dora, Princesses, Toopie, juice box, OUTSIDE, Toopie, change bum, juice box, milk, milk, OUTSIDE, milk, apple sauce, Dora, Jungle Book, OUTSIDE, ‘donalds and Princesses. We can’t let that happen, or your toddler-required quota of Blue’s Clues and goldfish would never be met. And I want you to grow. As long as I don’t have to carry you around as much.

You really hate going in a stroller now, but you’re not that into walking. So I end up carrying you all over the place, sometimes with you leaning waaaaay out and other times with her head on my shoulder, making me feel like the most important thing in the world to you. Except for your doggies, that is. And Dora. And Princesses. Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.

Spitting has become pretty standard. Not in a cute tomboy going up to bat kind of way, but in a way that seems one step away from a hiss. Usually if someone gets in your face after you’ve shown them your raspberry, they’re in for some sort of brawl. You slap, kick, punch, poke, pinch (which you seem to equate with being itchy and it does not help, for the record), bite ocassionally and throw things at other kids or me or your father.

We’re working on using our words instead of bodies. And I say to you a lot, “don’t hit me, I never hit you. Tell me what you would like.” What’s made it semi-entertaining is when you’ve gone to play with Sprite, and her mom (who is one of two women you call Mommy, me not being one of them.) and I are dishing in the kitchen and we hear the two of you. You’ve such similar and conflicting personalities, you want the same things at the same time and aren’t afraid to stand up for it. There’s a lot of tug wars and “Go AWAY”s. So HCM taught you how to say nicely, “go away, please” when Sprite was in your space, so you wouldn’t yell it and she wouldn’t react to you yelling at her negatively. You sing-songing “go away, please” is so sweet, I forget to start telling you it’s rude.

You’re sleeping better, when you choose to sleep. This means you’ve decided that naps are pretty much a waste of your time, though you will sit fairly happily with 14 toys, five books and four ‘friends’ in your crib with you for a couple of hours sometimes. This also means a fairly predictable melt down around dinner time, so that’s when I’m guaranteed to start counting down to bedsies. Sorry, about that. But when you have your own kiddos, you’ll know.

I know that I’m going to be pretty screwed over for that quiet time when you move into your big girl bed, soon. I’m half-heartedly hoping that you just won’t take to the bed, yet, and I won’t have to worry about you pounding on your bedroom door, saying, “Mama, I want to get out.” Because you are not much of a quiet time kid. Sitting and watching a movie without dancing and leaping and climbing just doesn’t happen. It’s cool, you’ve gotta move, I get that. I’ve, contrarily, gotta sit.

You’ve pretty much cut bread out of your diet. This means all other forms of bread products, too. No crackers, rice cakes, pitas, toast, pancakes…all of the foods that you used to love that would make your poop easy to clean up. Cuz I invariably end up eating whatever you don’t, you eat meat and produce and I eat bread, crackers and rice cakes. This is killing my waistline, honey. It’s gotta stop.

I switched you to rice milk from the kind that comes from a ‘moo.’ About that. Why won’t you say ‘cow’? I know you can. You just refuse. What’s up with that? Anyway. Since switching you, you haven’t gotten one more ear infection, which means no more antibioltics, which has finally led to a lack of bleeding, raw toddler ass. I think we’re both feeling happy about that. And I buy the vanilla kind, since I know you get off on the sweetness.

You’ve been asking for candy lately, never having had it. Well, you’ve had these organic fruit juice bears that we get at the health food store. And those, to you, are candy. You have no idea how much I hold onto that on those days when I feel like a horrible mother. That you don’t know what real candy is. And that you know mama needs a coffee every time we leave the house.

But, just to throw it out there, you do know the great lust that is sugar addiction. You love the icing from the mini cupcake I will buy for you once a week and you recognize the taste of chocolate, even if it’s in a smoothie format. You’re no so much into cake and a cookie is only oatmeal raisin, to you, but you do know junk food. Just in a modified form. Like brown rice chips, instead of potato; protein smoothies instead of milkshakes; Power Bars instead of chocolate bars.

The addiction that I really must argue with is the dresses. You are not a, how should I put this?, clean child. You think nothing of wearing your Princess Dress in the sand at the beach and dumping a smoothie all over it. I’m not a pretreater and never will be - it takes too much time, commitment and space - and at this rate, you’re not going to own one dress without a stain on the chest and/or ass. it kind of defeats the girly fashion look - just sayin’.

And speaking of chests. Why have you suddenly become fascinated by my boobs? You’ve always been into my bras. And why not? You could fit one side perfectly right over your face! But my boobs? You haven’t breatfed for two days short of a year now - why did they suddenly reappear on your radar? It’s not like you’re seeking nourishment, you just want to grab and poke and cup them, but uh…well, you gave them back to me. Get your own.

What else is so great about you? You learn so much stuff every day. Every hour, it seems. Colours and names and faces and even haircuts. You’ve taught yourself how to use possessive Ss and you will ask for whatever you want or need. You will also yell (or sing - see above) whatever you don’t want. Usually followed by throwing something, spitting or hitting - but hey, you’re getting there.

You’re the most social two year old I’ve ever witnessed. That’s not bragging or being your biased mom. I’ve never seen a toddler who spends 90% of her time with her mother who was so willing to love others. You play with other kids, especially older ones - getting along best with 3 to 4 year olds. You love their moms and you gasp babies’ names in awe of their fragility. You are so damn easy when it comes to socializing, it astounds me.

You teach me on a daily basis. And that’s exactly what I wanted. To be a guide and to be guided. To teach and be taught. To learn what you are capable of and what I am. Every day you challenge, captivate and awe me. To me, even if you are a little evil, sometimes, you are perfect. Why?

Because you’re you and you’ve made me Me.

I love you so much my heart hurts,
Mama

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