22 Months
Dear Taterbug,
This month you turn 22 months old, which means we’re almost at the end of these letters. When your sister turned two, I decided to stop writing letters so frequently, and instead just write a little note on each birthday, so for tradition’s sake, I’ve decided to do the same with you. It’s all about being fair, Tate. I don’t want either of you in therapy whining that I loved the other one more…and if you do end up there, please make sure to tell them how many times you’ve “accidentally” given me a bloody lip with your flailing head/arms/feet/body, just, you know, so they get the whole picture.
I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think we may have turned a very important corner, Tate. For the past six months or so you’ve been, let’s say…difficult. Every. Single. Thing. is a HUGE CHORE WORTH SCREAMING AND WHINING AND CRYING AND LAYING ON THE GROUND OH THE HORROR!!!! Dinner time is basically me launching macaroni and cheese at your face while you scream at me that its too hot or too cold or too cheesy or not cheesy enough. Then you throw your food on the ground and yell at the dog for eating it. Poor Molly, she does not get you, Tate. Why throw the food on the ground if you don’t want her to eat it? I hear ya, Molly, I have no idea either.
But in the last two weeks, you seem to have broken out of the crazy train. You are reminding me more and more of the happy little infant you once were. Will you ever be as “laid back” as we assumed you were? No, I don’t think so. But you sure are happy. You love to laugh and will find any excuse to do so. The other day, I had a friend at the house and every time she made eye contact with you, you’d fall over laughing. You had us all in tears Tate, it was hilarious! As are you. And you know it.
These last few months have been really hard on me, Tate, and you can sense when I’m sad or when I need your support. In fact, the laughing fit I mentioned above took place as I was crying over some recent drama I can’t control. You could feel the weight on my shoulders, and you picked it up like it was nothing, flinging it across the room with your antics. You and your sister have never been closer, teaming up to make me feel better when I’m down. Somehow you both manage to crawl on my lap as we lean back and forth in your rocking chair, with your hands resting on each others faces as you sing me lullabies.
You are so smart, Tate, already reciting your ABC’s and counting to five. I can finally understand you now, which I think is a huge part of your recent departure from frustration land. You can tell us what you want. We can have crazy, babbly little conversations. You have dance parties with your sister where you’ve developed some pretty sweet moves. You pretend to be a dinosaur and we chase each other around the house. That’s probably your favorite game, pretending to be something that growls. Dinosaur, bear, lion, whatever, as long as it growls in your face, you love it. You’re going to be so pissed when you find out you’re a mere human.
Some of my favorite moments with you happen right before bedtime. You love to go to bed, and the minute you feel tired enough, you run up the stairs and lay down on your bedroom floor, waiting for me to change your diaper and clothes. You then gather up your two favorite blankets and your stuffed dog and we settle in for an evening reading of Corduroy, your favorite book. After we’re done, we turn out the lights, turn on your sound machine and rock together for about five minutes. Sometimes you lay quietly on my chest, relaxing into the swaying motion. Sometimes you spend the entire five minutes pointing out my every body part (EYES! NOSE! EARS! HAIR! MAMAAAA!). Either way, it’s the perfect ending to a day with you.
I love you, Taterbug.
Love,
Mama
P.S.
