You may wonder if I have a point.  For once, I actually do.  You see, my husband’s birthday is tomorrow and I felt like maybe a grand display of my love and affection was in order.  Or at the very least, a public THANK YOU for putting up with me.

He hates “crap like this”.  Why do women do this, he asks.  Male bloggers generally don’t feel the need to post gushy declarations of love and rampant sentimentality on family and friends’ birthdays. 

So I’ll keep it short and sweet. 

Babe, I love you for all that you do for me, and all that you are for our family.  I know I don’t make it easy on you a lot of times.  Or ever.  But you take it all in stride, and keep moving along.  I love that after 12 years, you can still make me laugh.  You know what I am thinking and how I am feeling – sometimes even before I realize it myself.  You’re such an awesome husband and phenomenal father, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.

You make it possible for me to follow my dreams, and for that I can’t thank you enough.

You also make it possible for me to go on trips without having to worry about the kids, and I know that is a luxury a lot of mothers do not have.  Even though I desperately wish you could come with me to Qatar, I know I can travel with total peace of mind that they’re being cared for – in many ways better than I can do myself.

(Aside to the 3ish non-husband readers of this blog: did I mention that I’m going to Qatar in two weeks?)

(I totally am.)

(More on that later.)

Anyway, to sum up: N, I love you, you’re the perfect husband for me, and I look forward to celebrating many more birthdays with you.  Sorry for the schmaltz. 

The end.

Happy birthday, little one.  Three years, wow!  Look at you, getting all big and stuff.

You, missy, certainly keep us all on our toes.  You’re just always up to something – whether with the intent of mischief or not.  For example, one morning when I went to get you out of bed, I noticed that something wasn’t right.  What’s going on with your pants? I asked.  You grinned and exclaimed, dey’re on de WONG WAY! Yes, yes they most definitely were.  Apparently at some point during the night you took off your pants, turned them inside out, then put them back on.  Impressive, yet bizarre.

I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the differences between you and AE.  And oh, there are many.  You’re just such a typical toddler, and I realize now that he wasn’t.  You’re everything he isn’t – strong-willed and high-energy and basically just crazy-pants.  But in a FUN way.  (Most of the time.)

You have an incredible sense of humor.  You really do.  You go out of your way to make people laugh, and I can tell that you get such joy from doing so.  I’m sure eventually we’ll be getting phone calls from exasperated teachers – your personality has “class clown” written all over it – but for now, we just laugh.

And your imagination – I’ve never seen anything like it.  You can take the most innocuous of items and see whole scenarios, which you cheerfully play out much to the confusion of your brother, poor guy, firmly entrenched in his box as he is.  He just doesn’t understand the way your wee mind works.  I don’t either, to be honest, but it is obviously a wondrous, fascinating place.  I hope you keep that creativity throughout your life.  It will serve you well.

You’re such a joy.  For all your stubbornness and spite and that propensity for tiny, tiny rage, you really are just that.  An absolute delight.  You live with such reckless abandon that it’s hard to not fall prey to your charm.  I wish I had your cheer.  Not to mention your apparently endless energy, as you careen wildly from one activity of questionable safety to the next.  (Side note: it really would be fine if you just…sat down every once in a while.)

You’re still fearless.  It concerns me from time to time, honestly, since I have to be constantly vigilant whenever you leave the room.  But you also have a high tolerance for pain, which is a fortunate match for your dangerous lifestyle.  You’re a wonder, little one.

I’m a little worried about what the next year of your life holds for us – as comparatively easy of a toddler as your brother was, three was still difficult.  I will never understand why the twos are supposedly so terrible – three was far far worse for us.  But I’m not going to worry about it too much – we’ll just take each day at a time and enjoy you for what you are.  A sweet, loving, charming, beautiful little girl that I love more than life itself.

I adore you, baby girl.  We all do, even AE.  He may play coy at times, but I hear what’s going on when the two of you assume I’m not listening.  He’s becoming that big brother I’d always hoped he’d be.  He’s your unwitting hero, your protector, your greatest admirer.  Treasure that, baby girl.  You’ve got the greatest sibling a kid could ever hope for.

I’m so lucky, I can’t even put it into words.  I love you so much and I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

Mommy

P.S.  Sorry about the post-Christmas birthday timing you got stuck with.  It…kind of sucks.

1.  You take AE to school every morning, because you know that particular brand of traffic makes me stabby.

2.  You gave up your car and volunteered to drive my 9-year-old 4Runner without a second thought, because you knew that BMW was what I really, really wanted.

3.  You genuinely love both of our children with all of your heart.

4.  You’ll help me out with anything I ask, usually with only a minimal amount of grumbling.

5.  You don’t mind matching and folding socks, which is great, because if it were left up to me we’d all have to dig for a matching pair out of a community pile.

6.  You are sweet and kind to my nonagenarian grandmothers, treating them as if they’re your own.

7.  You refill my wine glass without asking on days you can tell that I need it.

8.  You indulge my crazy whims, and tame my wild streak.

9.  You let me fall asleep before you come to bed, because you know that your CPAP noise often keeps me awake.

10.  You’ve been nothing but supportive of my decision to go back to school, even though it often means more kid-shuttling and dinner-making and lonely TV-watching for you.

11.  You recently bought me this shirt just because you knew I’d love it, and I do.

12.  You always know how to make me laugh, no matter the situation.

13.  You never seriously complain about the amount of money that I spend.  Even if it is on yet another pair of shoes.

14.  You don’t ever try to make me feel guilty about leaving you alone with the kids all weekend so that I can go see my girls.

15.  I never, ever worry about how the kids are when you’re caring for them alone, because you take care of them just as well (if not better than) I do.

16.  You love me for me, and I know that will always be true.

17.  You inspire me to be a better person.

18.  You’re the most thoughtful man I’ve ever met.

19.  With very few (sleep-addled) exceptions, you don’t leave the toilet seat up.

20.  You know when I need to just curl up in your lap and cry, and you don’t try to “fix it”.

21.  You are an awesome travel partner, and there’s nothing better than a vacation with you.

22.  You rarely fuss about the fact that I don’t eat – and therefore do not cook – beef.

23.  You never mention my lack of cooking skills at all, as a matter of fact.

24.  You will – and have had to – drive across town to save me from a cockroach donkey.

25.  You listen patiently as I rant and rave and flail about my day, no matter how long it takes.

26.  You watch movies that you hate, just because you know I really want to see them.

27.  You’re my balance, since you are every bit as mellow as I am high-strung.

28.  You completely trust me to handle our finances, and never seem to worry that I’m running us into mountains of debt (I’m not) or forgetting to plan for the future (got it covered).

29.  You’re a great writer, and I always enjoy reading your blog.

30.  You’re the perfect match to my closet nerd.

31.  You excel at thoughtful, meaningful gifts for every occasion, and forgive me for the fact that I suck at gift-giving and don’t even believe in greeting cards.

32.  You’re the most wonderful husband (and father) that I could possibly imagine.

I love you very much, babe.  And even though we’re currently separated by several states, I hope you have a very happy birthday.  Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

Love, K

Sweet fancy Moses.  Eight years old.  So just how old does that make me?

Ahem.  Moving on.

Dear AE:

A few weeks you asked me to stop calling you “dude”.  That’s not my name, you said.  Please don’t call me that anymore. I promised I would try – and I will – but oh, kiddo.  I’ve been calling you that for as long as I can remember.  And I tend to use it far more often than your actual name, which may be part of your issue.  But in all honesty, baby, you should just be glad that I finally stopped calling you by that other toddlerhood nickname.  Because if you think Dude is embarrassing, imagine what your friends would say if they heard me call you Goo.

You’re getting to that age, I think.  The one where your parents are less your heroes and more your annoyances.  I’ll try to avoid embarrassing you whenever I can, but I can’t guarantee anything.  I’m turning into your Nonna, after all, and so it is inevitable.

I just can’t emphasize enough what a terrific kid you are.  Your sister is old enough for me to realize that man, have you ever been a total walk in the park.  I mean sure, you have your moments.  You get grumpy, and obstinate, and sometimes you are a pain in my ass, but overall I couldn’t ask for a more awesome son.  You’re agreeable, and cheerful and well, EASY.

And I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again – you are the smartest kid I know.  No, scratch that.  You are the smartest person I know, and I can’t wait to see what you plan to do with all those brains.  Because it could be anything.  You could be a doctor, or a lawyer, or the next Bill Gates.  But you know what?  If you want to be a garbageman, baby, that’s okay with me.  As long as you’re happy and you’re doing what you want to do in life I promise to support you, no matter what.

It’s harder for me, the older you get.  I mean, I’m fine with you getting older – I’ve never been a “baby person” and I far appreciate the mental challenge of parenting older kids as opposed to the physical strain of running around after little ones (like your sister, OMG).  But I feel us growing apart.  You’re not my baby anymore, that is obvious.  And since I don’t share any of your current interests, it’s becoming difficult for me to find anything to discuss with you.  You love to talk at me about video games, but to be honest I really hate it when you do that.  I don’t know what any of it means, so it sounds like you’re the teacher from Charlie Brown cartoons.  Wah wah wahhhhhhh.

It’s just much easier for your dad to talk with you about all manner of things, and you seem to prefer that anyway.  He’s Dad, after all.  He’s supposed to be your hero.  But I’m rapidly becoming that woman who merely washes your clothes, fixes your dinner, and makes you clean your room and also behind your ears.  Dad gets to do all the cool stuff – like take you to sporting events and play video games.

I guess it will vary from year to year.  Your interests will change, and maybe someday soon we’ll have something in common. And I don’t have any idea how the relationship goes between teenage boys and their fathers, but if it it’s anything like that between teen girls and their moms – maybe my day is coming.  Either way I’m fine for now, because you still bounce up to me at random intervals, apropos of nothing, to give a hug and say with all sincerity I love you, Mom.

I love you too, kiddo.  More than words can say.  Happy birthday.

What, you’ve never had one of those?

I ordered my textbooks online through Amazon last week and one arrived yesterday.  I skimmed through it and was immediately transported back into my very first sociology class, a place where I was introduced to the word “paradigm” and didn’t have a clue what was actually being discussed. I’m one of those people who would show up to lecture, half-ass the assigned reading and somehow manage to BS my way through the exam just enough to squeak by with a passing grade.  Honestly, it’s a wonder I have a bachelor’s degree, considering my astounding lack of study skills.

I’m someone who reads crappy romance/mystery novels – like the ones by Nora Roberts and Mary Higgins Clark – on the rare occasion that I actually sit down and read a book.  Do you know when I feel like I have time for that?  On airplanes.  In hotel rooms before I go to bed.  That’s about it.  Reading actual informative books – and comprehending them – is going to be a rude awakening.  As is eschewing my evening glass of wine and mindless TV for some serious study time.

I am fortunate enough to have a wonderful, supportive husband that takes an equal role in raising our kids.  But there are things that I must do that he won’t (because I am a control freak and also rather anal), or other things that he could do but doesn’t think about because they don’t bother him.  Things like the laundry, setting out clothes for the next day, vacuuming more than is strictly necessary, cleaning the cat box, straightening up the kids’ rooms, putting away rogue toys, etc., etc., etc.  So I am going to have to learn to ask for help when I need it, and also to lighten up a little.  A year from now, is it really going to matter that Miss T’s various dollhouse components didn’t get put away before I went to bed?  Settle down, self.

Not to mention all the other regular tasks that will still have to get done.  Cooking dinner, grocery shopping, going to the gym, going on occasional out of town trips to visit my nonagenarian grandmothers…none of these things will stop being important just because I have homework to get done.

I’m going to need another twelve hours in each day.

I have no doubt that I can do this.  Anyone who knows me in real life can attest to exactly how stubborn I am.  Hell, I ran a half-marathon powered primarily by sheer force of will.  Prior to running those 13.1 miles in San Francisco, the furthest I’d ever gone was 6.7.  But I did it.  If I want something, I go after it full-throttle and won’t stop until it’s mine.  I’m not worried about that at all.

It’s going to be hard.  Probably harder even than I’ve prepared myself for.  I ran into a professor I know at the grocery store on Sunday.  He had been kind enough to write me a letter of recommendation when I applied to ASU and so has an understandable interest in whether or not I succeed.  “Gotten started with those graduate classes yet?” he asked.  “Next week,” I replied.  “Remind me, do you have kids?” was his follow-up question.  When I answered, “Yeah, two of them, not quite 8 and 2 1/2,” he looked impressed.  “All that and you’re still planning to work full time?  Good luck,” he said sincerely. “You’ll need it.”

Thanks for that, dude.  Now I’m even more panicked than I was before.  I’m coping by telling myself that his graduate work was in HIGH ENERGY PHYSICS.  Of course it was a challenge.  GAAAAAAH.

But beyond the nerves, trumping the stress – is the excitement.  God, y’all, I’m so excited.  This is what I’ve always wanted.  It took me a lot of years to figure that out, and the path I chose is not the most direct, but this is what I am meant to do.

And I can’t wait to see where it takes me.

Finally I sent his teacher an e-mail.  AE’s father and I are concerned, I said.  Is this normal playground roughhousing, or is something more going on?  As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s hard to get the straight story out of a seven-year-old.

She responded almost immediately.  I was aware that this behavior had happened in the past.  I did not realize it was still going on.  I will speak to the boys right away.  I will make sure it stops.  Thank you so much for bringing it to my attention.

When I picked AE up from school that day, the first thing he did was tell me how his teacher had pulled him aside.  I’m supposed to tell her if Alex S. punches me in the privates again, he exclaimed.  Good, I said. Just remember that it’s not a matter of being a tattletale just to get him in trouble.  Punching you like that is not okay.

I know, Mom, he assured me.

A few weeks passed, in which AE’s reports of Alex S.-based harassment seemed less frequent.  He mentioned a few instances in which the kid had been sent to the principal or put in ISS (in-school suspension), but usually because of some other infraction.   But there were a few times where the punishment was a result of punching AE.  In the privates.  Again.

AE assured me that his teacher was on top of it.  She knows, she saw it happen, she sent him right to the principal.

So I let it go.

But yesterday afternoon at work, my phone rang.  It was an outside number that I didn’t recognize, but I figured it was a faculty member calling me from home.  I answered.

Hello, the voice said, this is AE’s teacher, Ms. B.  I wanted to let you know that there was another incident with the boys today.  During music class, Alex S. hit your AE in the privates yet again. I listened quietly as she continued.  I’m at my wit’s end.  I’ve done everything I can think of to get through to Alex S.  I’ve sent him to the principal, he’s been put in ISS.  I’ve told him to stay away from AE and I’ve discussed things with his mom.  As a mother myself, I know how frustrated you must be.  I just want you to know that I’m doing everything I can, but nothing seems to help.

I know you are, I said, and I appreciate it.  They won’t be in the same classroom again next year, will they?

Absolutely not, she said.  I’ve already turned in my recommendation.  AE is a good kid.  He’s not doing anything to provoke this behavior, Alex S. just seems to have fixated on him for some reason.  The other kids in the class were the ones to tell me today.  AE was just standing there minding his own business.

We talked for a few more minutes and she welcomed me to contact the principal, assuring me that he is aware of the entire situation.  Great, thank you for calling me, I said sincerely.  It was after I hung up that I realized: I have absolutely no idea how to deal with this.  These aren’t the things you think about when you’re pregnant and glowing and buying crib sheets.  These aren’t the things you think about confronting with when your toddler is throwing a fit about dinner options for the eleventy hojillionth time.  I’m not prepared for this.

So what do we do?  N and I discussed it, but really, what are our options?  One of my coworkers – whose children are grown – suggested calling the kid’s mother.  Whatever the school’s doing as punishment clearly isn’t making a difference.  You need to make sure his mother is aware there’s a problem. She’s got a point, but the very idea of calling his mom nearly makes me break out in hives.  I’ve met her before, and she was nice enough, but I can’t even fathom beginning THAT conversation.

Well, then tell AE to hit him back, this same coworker suggested.  Yeah, a few male coworkers chimed in.  He needs to hit Alex S. in the nuts.  That’ll teach him. Surprisingly, my mother – a 30-year teaching veteran – suggested the very same thing.

Okay.  While I do realize that often bullies only understand their own language – in this case, nut-punching – I just don’t think I’m ready to tell my kid that I condone such activities, no matter the situation.  It’s a fine line between standing up for oneself and merely stooping to the bully’s level.  On the other hand, I do think he is old enough to understand if we explained Look, normally we don’t allow such things.  And the school will have to punish you, because it is breaking the rules.  But maybe he’ll get it if he sees how much it hurts.  Maybe he’ll finally leave you alone.

But even if we gave the green light, I don’t think AE would be able to bring himself to do that.  He’s not programmed that way.  He’s not like Alex S.

I don’t know.  That’s what it all boils down to.  The school year is almost over, and with the assurance that the boys won’t be in the same classroom next year, I’m tempted to continue to let it go. It’s just this one kid with a fixation, it’s not like AE is constantly the target of bullying.

Except.

N pointed out something that I hadn’t considered – Alex S. attended the school district’s all-day summer camp last year, just like AE.

So with that realization, now there’s another, louder part of me that’s tempted to e-mail the principal a warning.  Just so you know, I’ve given my child the go-ahead to punch Alex S. in the nuts.  Punish him if you want, but we’re taking him out for ice cream afterward.

He’ll remember.

He is old enough to have his feelings hurt when I yell for no good reason.  He is old enough to be disappointed if I can’t make it to his school program.  He is old enough to be embarrassed, but conversely, he’s certainly old enough to understand when he’s embarrassing his parents.

Kids embarrass their parents.  It’s just the way things are.  As an adult, I cringe when I recall a few specific incidents where my poor mother must have wanted the ground to swallow her whole.  As a kid, they were no big deal but to a parent they would be utterly mortifying.

AE has always been sensitive, for lack of a better all-encompassing term.  He’s cautious and careful and easily bothered by stuff that wouldn’t phase other kids.  It’s not really a problem.  Over the years we’ve learned to take it into account, usually by giving him extra time to acclimate.  And it’s lessening with age anyway – the older he gets, the more willing he is to try new things.  He’ll never be his sister, plunging headlong into every situation without a second thought – but let’s face it.  Using a little caution, taking that one extra minute to consider your next move, can be a really smart thing.

That being said, his tendency towards weepiness IS becoming an issue.  At almost 7.5 years of age, one of the oldest kids in his first grade class, AE’s knee-jerk reaction is to burst into tears whenever he’s upset.  And I’m not talking major upset either, like breaking a bone or losing a pet or failing an important test.  I’m talking about bursting into tears when I dare to suggest that maybe he might take a bit more time drying off after the bath because he’s still dripping wet.  I’m talking about crying when he can’t figure out how to advance to the next level in Indiana Jones Lego or because his sister took the last juice box.

In my opinion, he’s way too old to react like that.  Quite frankly, it can be really embarrassing.  There.  I said it.  It’s embarrassing to be the parent of the kid who bursts into uncontrollable, hysterical tears when he gets tapped by a rogue basketball during practice.  Struck so lightly as to not even leave a red mark.  (And as someone with an extremely high pain tolerance of their own, it’s doubly mortifying.)

But I’ve never parented a seven-year-old boy before.  Maybe this is normal.  Either way, I don’t know how to deal with it.

I still remember the name of the kid from my school who cried about everything.  GOD.  That kid cried about EVERYTHING.  And this was junior high!  Seventh, eighth grade!  He’d burst into tears if you looked at him funny.  Jesus H.  It was ridiculous.  We’re not at that point yet, but I don’t ever want to be, you know?  I don’t want MY kid to be the kid that his classmates think of twenty years down the line, when they’re dealing with similar issues with THEIR kids.  I don’t want them going, there was a kid in my elementary school, AE, who used to cry about everything and we used to make SO MUCH FUN of him.  Do you want to be like that kid?

Children are mean.  Everyone knows that.  I remember how cruel I was and it breaks my heart to think of other kids treating MY precious baby that way.  I’ll love him either way (OBV) but for his sake, I don’t want him to be That Kid.  And really, I don’t think he will be.  He seems well liked, his classmates go out of their way to tell him goodbye when we pick him up, he gets invited to parties.  He seems socially adjusted.  It could be that this is his crazy mother projecting ridiculous, unwarranted childhood fears onto her own offspring.

But still.  The crying.  How do we make it stop?  How do we explain that it isn’t acceptable to cry over a video game, but there are plenty of circumstances (i.e. death, serious injury, zombie attack) where it IS okay to cry?  Where’s that line?

GAH, parenting.  Sometimes it sucks balls.

First, a wine review!

This is a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo dry red wine, Monte Campo, Italy.  Interestingly (to me, anyway) it’s marked denominazione di origine controllata.  (Click on the link, maybe you’ll learn something new, like I did!  Wine drinking: it’s educational!)

I’ve repeated many times that I’m not generally a fan of reds, but this one was a gift so I thought I’d give it a go.  (Full disclosure: it was gifted to N.  But he doesn’t drink wine, so all tasting and consumption responsibilities fall to me.  It’s a hard life.)  So taste it I did, as a last resort, when my wine fridge was empty of everything except the Francis Ford Coppola Bianco Pinot Grigio that I’m saving for a special occasion.  (N keeps asking me what this “special occasion” might be, exactly, because it has been in there for months already and that’s by far the longest a bottle of wine has ever survived in this house.  And I always tell him that I’m not sure, BUT I WILL KNOW WHEN IT HAPPENS.)

ANYWAY.  Out of white wine, yes.  So the red wine was on deck.  And guess what?  I liked it! I know!  Despite the fact that the label touts it as having a light cherry, berry and leather bouquet.  I read THAT and was all, leather, WTF, why would I want to drink anything that tastes/smells of leather.  But.  It was very smooth, and had a sweet undertone, and wasn’t as dry as I find most reds to be.  So in short, YUM.  And I bet it would be an excellent wine for cooking also.  I went to the liquor store today, hoping to buy another bottle, but they were out.  So I picked up another Montepulciano d’Abruzzo from a different winery, in the same price range, so I’ll compare.  It’ll be like a science experiment!  (But I will have to buy another bottle of the Monte Campo too.  For control purposes, of course.)

So there you have it:  Thing #1.  A red wine exists that I will not only drink, but actually enjoy.  Who knew?

And now for Thing #2.  I’ve been accepted into the graduate program at Arizona State University, to pursue a Master of Arts in Criminal Justice.  It’s a step toward my ultimate goal, my lifelong dream -  to go into federal law enforcement.  I had planned to wait until Miss T started kindergarten before trying to get into grad school, but I finally decided that since I’m not getting any younger it was time.  Most federal agencies have an age limit for new field agents, and I don’t even know if I have a realistic shot at becoming an agent, but if I don’t at least try I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

Maybe my goals will change as I move through the MACJ program, and I’ll discover something else that appeals to me.  It’s entirely possible.  But either way, I’ll be coming out of it with a Master’s degree, and that’s certainly not a bad thing.  The program is entirely online, so I’ll be able to keep working full-time and we won’t have to relocate or anything like that.

With a full-time job that’s demanding and often high-stress, and two kids and a husband, and extended family and housework and pets and everything else, it’s going to be hard.  I have no illusions otherwise.  (Not to mention the expense.)  But N is awesomely supportive, and my bosses are very understanding.  So somehow I’ll figure it out.  The courses all look fascinating to me, and I’m really excited at the prospect of going back to school, and I have no doubt that this is the right choice and the right time.  It’s adding one more ball to my sometimes-delicate juggling act, but I’ll make it happen.

Because anything worth having is worth working for, right?

The past year has flown by, and here we are again.   Today you’re two years old.  Today, we can’t even pretend that you’re still a baby.  You’ve made that transition to…well, a tiny person. Your personality is in full bloom and let me just say, WOW. You amaze me every day, but I can’t lie. Sometimes you frighten me as well.

You are fearless, baby girl. That’s an admirable quality, to be sure, but sometimes it can lead to disappointment. Some things are just too dangerous for a little one to do, and I know you don’t understand that. I’m sorry that you get mad at me for taking you away from the fun, but I’m just trying to keep you safe. Because clearly you are lacking the self-preservation gene.

These are uncharted waters for us, peanut. Your brother was (is)…passive, and this full-body tantruming thing that you do is not something your father and I know how to deal with. Normally we just ignore you, let you scream it out, and then you finally get up and walk away. Like, well, I guess it isn’t getting me anywhere so I’ll save my energy for jumping on the couch. Which is something else you do with reckless abandon.

You are hilarious.  You love to make people laugh, which is sometimes an issue for your father and me.  We have to be careful not to laugh too much when you loudly, repeatedly mispronounce “fork” every night at dinner.  But wow, is that ever hard, because it’s really funny.  And adorable.

So far, raising you has been very different than raising your brother.  But honestly, it’s hard for me to tell how much of that is because you’re the second child, how much of it is because you’re a girl, and how much of it is because you’re, well, YOU.  You two are like night and day, much like your father and me.  And that’s how I know you’ll be best friends.  He adores you, that brother of yours, and he looks out for you and comforts you when you cry.  I hope you know how lucky you are to have that.  I think you do.  You love him too, making sure he comes to the table when it’s time for lunch (yelling “Dooo!  Doooooo!” since I always call him Dude), and randomly plopping in his lap whenever he sits still for more than a minute.

You are so sweet and tender with your baby dolls, giving them kisses and carefully feeding them and putting them to bed.  It keeps you entertained for ages, although you’ve started chattering loudly and adamantly while you do it, and I can’t quite figure out what you’re saying.  I’m pretty sure it’s keeping your poor babies from getting any restful sleep, though.

The cat is your new best friend, I think, and she puts up with it whenever you try to put her to bed too.  It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.  The cat lays there on the floor, allowing you to cover her with a blanket and pat the living hell out of her.  I honestly think she likes it.  You two have forged quite a bond.  That stupid cat looks for you every morning, and fusses loudly until you agree to pet her.  “No, no, kitty,” you sometimes say.  “Shut up.”  That’s my girl.

You are a wonder, kid.  I am so lucky to be your mom, and I love you more than you’ll ever, ever know.  Well, until you have babies of your own one day.  And when you do, I can only hope that they run and hide when you try to put on their shoes, too.  It’s only fair.

Love, Mommy

Dear AE:

You turn seven today.  And in all honesty, that just boggles my mind.  There’s nothing about you that’s little anymore.  Your long legs, loose teeth and occasional smart mouth all tell me that my baby boy is a thing of the past.  I mean, you’ll always by my baby, of course, but you are by no means a baby to the world at large.  Not anymore.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  You amaze me.  Each and every day, you shock me by knowing something you shouldn’t, or making a leap of logic that doesn’t seem possible for someone your age.

Did you know that all this time, you’ve been teaching me?  You’re a phenomenal teacher, kid.  You truly are.  It’s because of you that I know how to do all sorts of things, like trim a squirming toddler’s fingernails or cut the hair of a screaming, crying bucking bronco.  Seriously, though.  We’re reaching that point where parenting is becoming more of a mental challenge than a physical one.  The Big Questions are coming, I can tell, and I’m not sure I’ll know how to answer them.  I was uncomfortable enough when you asked me for to define “worship” a couple of weeks ago.  I didn’t really know what to say.  I’m not religious, but I do believe in God, and I want to at least give you the tools you need to make your own informed decision.  Your Nonna fusses at me for not taking you to church.  She says you’ll start to resist if I put it off for too much longer.  She might be right, but I don’t know.  You’re still pretty laid-back and agreeable, two of your most endearing traits.

That said, I don’t ever want to force you into anything, kiddo.  You’re too smart, and it is unbelievably important to me that you get to forge your own path.  I want to guide you and answer your questions but the decisions are yours to make.  I do, however, reserve the right to say “I told you so.”  It’s a perk of motherhood, check the handbook.

I really appreciate your willingness to roll with the punches, dude.  You may have noticed by now, I’m not the most patient mom in the world.  My fuse is short and unfortunately, you tend to be on the receiving end of my temper a lot of the time.  I need to relax and remember that your cheerful boundless energy is not generally intended as an irritant.  You’re happy, and that’s a good thing.  To your credit, when I lose it and snap at you, five minutes later you’re giving me a hug and telling me you love me.  Thank you for that.  I hope you’re always so willing to forgive.

Of course, it’s not all rainbows and sunshine.  You don’t cop an attitude with your dad and me too often, which I do appreciate.  No, our issue with you is a little something I like to call Space Cadet Syndrome.  Holy freaking crap, kid.  I did not know it was possible to be that oblivious to one’s own surroundings.  Yet somehow you manage, staring slack-jawed at me when I ask you yet again to perform a routine task.  Like putting on your shoes.  Or flushing the toilet.  Can we get a handle on that, please?  Having to repeat myself eleventy-thousand times a day makes my brain start to liquefy in my skull after a while.

But overall, I’m not complaining.  If abject cluelessness is the worst we have to deal with right now, then I think you’re doing just fine.  Better than that.  Terrific, even, and I’ll take it.

Seven years old.  More than halfway to being a teenager.  You’ll be all grown up before too long.  I look forward to the rest of the journey with you, baby.

Love, Mom