What we live for

Today we celebrated my grandma's 93rd birthday.

We celebrated at a Japanese steakhouse where they cook the food on the grill in front of you, complete with fire tricks to transfix the kids!

She told me that my kids are some of the things that make her life worthwhile, and make her want to stick around for a while. She said she wanted to be at Audrey's college graduation, which drew some laughter from the kids. Lance said, "Nunu, you would be 109! That's practically the World's Oldest Person!

They know they are special to her, but they don't know how lucky they are--they have always had her nearby. Lance only remembers the visit to Florida from pictures. Pictures and the story about how my mom dropped him on his head on the tile floor. She is a part of their lives in a more regular way, not living across the country for a couple of visits a year like I had. And since her other grand and great-grandchildren live farther away, I want mine to fill in all the visits that the others can't easily make.

And of course as I'm composing this post in my mind, I'm thinking about how seeing her face light up at the sight of my kids makes it all worthwhile, and gives me perspective to try to overcome the frustration at the daily bickering and dirty shoes and mealtime battles.

I know they will be grown up before I blink. But did that stop me from getting irritated when they whined about being bored in the car? Or when they argued over the new magazine that came in the mail? Or from snapping the book closed at storytime because Audrey was wiggling down from the couch, wheelbarrow-style, because she wasn't listening?

Not exactly. But it does remind me to keep trying. And to hope that someday, I will be 93 and have as much to be thankful for as my Grandma does.

Happy Birthday NuNu!

Read Across the Living Room

It has just "clicked" in the last few weeks! Dr. Seuss would be proud!

Reading of "The Wig" from Rachel Broderhausen on Vimeo.

And I realize my last few posts have been about Audrey. Mr. 9 yr old doesn't generate so many blog-worthy, heart wrenching posts these days. It's mostly because his stories often don't feel like my stories to tell.

But if you look at this picture (I am almost barfing that I'm posting it), you might be able to tell what my right-footed boy spends most of his waking hours doing. (HINT: Involves a black and white ball, and at school, a muddy field).

If you can't see it, the entire right big toe side of the shoe is blowing out. Lots of kicking, I guess!


And if it's not soccer, it's this...

My heart belongs to the plumber

She handed me this envelope...
At first I thought, "Who's Bill Wood?" but then realized it's my WATER BILL!



Evidently my water pressure is going down. She must have heard me yelling that someone flushed the toilet while I was in the shower...



She has the answer,

and the best A-for effort sweetness around.
(I will try my best)

Just wonder how much she charges, and if she's bonded and insured?

I have to throw in a special thank you to her fantastic kindergarten teacher, who encourages them to always try "kid writing" before asking someone how to spell things. They do a morning journal writing 4 times a week where the kids write and then have adults come around and show them the "adult writing" with the spelling corrections. But it's all this wonderful environment where the kids write their own words and aren't told they are wrong.

Questionable dress code

I walked into Bitty Girl's room today after she'd been up there playing and found this.


Perfectly arranged, mid-story.


Behold, the teacher bear.

It's even a Halloween-themed story.

Not quite sure about the girl with no pants on the right, but at least she's sitting quietly and listening. In Bitty's class, you wouldn't dare do otherwise.

Wired for school

Guess which kid is headed for a life as Ms. Goody Two Shoes like her mama?

She brought this "homework" sheet from preschool today - it's not due until NEXT Wednesday, but she insisted that WE DO IT RIGHT NOW, MOM! And no, you can't write it for me. I'm doing it myself. With a marker. And you need to print out a picture of Sammy, my stuffed animal dog that "breathes" because we don't really have a pet.

Not so Bitty anymore--Four!

Four. It doesn’t seem possible. Our baby girl is four.

(don't ask about the elbow bandage. Major fall and scrape 15 minutes before we were to leave for birthday dinner at Red Robin. She's fine. But, oy, the tears.)

Bitty Girl,

You have grown up so much in the last year, but so many parts of you are just MORE this year. You laugh louder, play harder, ride your bike faster, argue longer, and stand up for yourself more. You are a sweet, kind-hearted girl who would share the last bite of her cupcake even if we didn’t ask. Clearly not a first-born.

You love to laugh, and your infectious giggle makes us all shine brighter. You’re working on joke telling, both knock knock jokes and riddles, and while the punch line is sometimes a mystery, you can laugh convincingly enough to make anyone think it’s really funny.

You are on your way to being a gourmet chef, mainly thanks to weekend breakfasts with Daddy. You can practically make pancake or crepe batter yourself. You love to help with everything—breakfast, toast, cakes and cookies, sprinkling cheese on nachos, and even doing dishes! Just this week you were literally filled with excitement to help make your own birthday cake, insisted on helping with everything, even racing upstairs midway through to don your chef hat and apron.

You can flour cake pans, use the mixer, measure flour and sugar, fold egg whites into batter, and crack eggs.

We switched you to a new preschool this year, the Shoreline Children’s Center where The Boy went, and you are thriving. You have your group of 2-3 best girl friends, and you greet each other with hugs and smiles. It literally said “Audrey is a joy to have in class” on your assessment/report card sheet. I think I cried tears of joy, or maybe relief. You love coming home with facts you learned at school—this month has been sea animals. You have demonstrated how a starfish moves on its suction cups, how long an octopus can stretch, and reenacted the entire egg-laying cycle of sea turtles. Guess you’re a good listener in school too!

I watch in wonder every day at your dramatic play—I cannot believe what you dream up. The details, the elaborate details of where people are going and which imaginary friend is calling you and why you have to pick up your babies from school and your grocery list and your plans for the weekend—astounding.

I do worry about the way you rush around, worry that you are mimicking me and my eternal state of being over-busy. You have to “go pick up brother” or “go teach my class” or “be a volunteer for the PTA and make lists” and so much of it sounds familiar. But you will entertain yourself for long stretches of time, reading to your babies or setting up your “classroom” or playing with your Pet Shops or Ponies.

You are the artist of the family, specializing in little notes and sculptures. You make us hundreds of presents, little letters or drawings on paper that is folded and taped (and taped and taped—you LOVE your scotch tape) into little packages that you hide for “Mother’s Day” or “Father’s Day” or “next year!”

At preschool, you are the Creation Station Queen, and the teachers know it. You insist on saving our toilet paper tubes and other recyclables to contribute, and we joke with the teachers about the “Circle of Life,” how we donate things and then you use them and just bring them home again.

Stubborn? Oh, the arguing and the negotiation! You might ask me what day it is, and I’ll answer “Tuesday.” Then you say, “No, it’s Wednesday.” And there is no changing your mind. It’s futile to argue, although I find myself getting sucked into the Typhoon of Argument Despair almost daily.

And heaven help us if we don’t know what you are talking about. You have a fairly short fuse, and often collapse into a puddle of whining and tears, complete with a foot stamp and stink eye if we don’t know what “thing” you’re talking about, no matter how few clues you’ve given us. Lucky for us, you are still easily consoled, rarely pout very long, and can often be cheered up quickly with a distraction. Or if you get what you want—this is an ongoing issue around here.

For your brother, though, you might just be the best little sister ever. You actually enjoy playing Pokemon with him. Once, when he was going on and on and on about his video game and I just got sick of listening, you said, “I’ll listen to you. Tell me.” He does leave you out sometimes, and has taken to locking his bedroom door, which breaks your heart.

Your worst little sister trick is one that I know and remember well—it was played on me. When he is getting in trouble, you pipe up to remind me how you are doing the right thing, or being polite, or having good manners, etc. I tell you that that doesn’t work—it didn’t work for Auntie Em and it doesn’t work for you.

I cringe thinking about the inappropriate words and tv shows and conversations that you hear and see, thanks to a 7 yr old brother. There is far too much Pokemon and potty talk for my liking, but luckily you seem to have a good handle on what’s appropriate at school vs. home.

I often tell the story about how we were ACTUALLY WORRIED that you weren’t talking that much at 18 months or even 2 years old. Compared to how your brother talked, you seemed fairly quiet. HA! Serves us right for worrying. The other day I had to ask if you could be quiet for 5 minutes, and I would set the timer, just to get some peace and quiet. Wonder where you get that talkative side?

Things you have learned/done this year include:

• Riding a bike with training wheels, and not just any bike: a pink and white princess bike
• Writing your name
• Starting a new preschool and making new friends
• Learning to play Crazy Eights
• Creating hundreds of paintings, drawings, and sculptures
• Planting a garden
• Learning to write your name
• Taking swimming lessons--and now you put your face in the water willingly!

We are so proud of you. You remind us to say grace at dinner, to get excited about beautiful flowers and airplanes and seeing the moon during the daytime. You share and find ways to include everyone, and really think about other people's feelings.

Happy Birthday - we love you to the moon, through outer space, and back!

I can hardly wait

I think I will quite enjoy myself if I ever have the pleasure of becoming a grandmother. (If they're good and old enough, first, of course)

Because Bitty Girl is compiling a list, and I, her dutiful yet evidently a FAILURE of a mother, am acting as her scribe. Stay tuned for future additions to the list.

We call it "My Kids," and it goes something like this:

MY kids..... (heavy emphasis on the my)

• are going to be able to stay up late. As late as they want.
• are going to eat all the candy they want. For breakfast.
• will be able to color with crayons and markers in the living room
• can have all the crayons they want in their room. Even if they color on their furniture.
• will not have to use lotion after they take a bath.
• are going to be allowed to bring toys and stuffed animals outside, even if they're inside toys.

We also play another version called "When I Grow Up, I Will Let My Kids"

When I grow up, I will let my kids.....

• drink chocolate milk all day
• drink carrot milk. This involves dipping your carrot into your milk and licking the milk off
• get chips every time they go out to eat at places that sell chips
• drive the car. (I usually just smile and say, "Lucky kids!" but for this one, I said - "Really? Before they're 16?" To which Future Mother of The Year replied, "I'll put in a special car seat so they can reach the pedals."

Now to file these away so I can carry on the tradition of snorting with laughter when my daughter complains about her children.

This little light of mine

Bitty Girl is aiming to be the artsy Martha type her mother only dreams about.

When I picked her up at school, she was deep into her painting. Gave me a look that said, "MOM - I AM NOT FINISHED!"

Yesterday she spent a few secretive minutes with a pipe cleaner and some rips of black paper before proudly presenting me with her bird. Look closely - it really looks like a bird.

With wings and a tail.

And then tonight, we made candle cookies. Or assembled and decorated candle cookies, complete with icing "wax drips."

She picked them out from a picture in Family Fun magazine, and decorated them with minimal Mama help.

Again, what's with the obnoxious polka dot plates? Must get some solid color ones for future projects.
That and a blog designer.

I present Bitty and her candles. And it really was fun. Sorry about the post-bath wet hair and the Blair Witch video. I'm sure Martha is shuddering.

Seven

Seven years ago today, I was lying in a hospital bed, water broken but still on bedrest, waiting and waiting, and having no real idea that in just a few short hours, I would meet the most amazing creature who would change my life forever.

I’m having a hard time accepting seven. I read back on my “Happy 6th birthday” post, and evidently I have an annual “hard time accepting the birthday” thing. Although reading the Happy 5th Birthday post showed me we've beaten the Dec 12 curse! But he’s so BIG this year, and doing so many big things. The last year has included: Finishing kindergarten and learning to read, finally losing two teeth this summer, riding a bike without training wheels, really mastering swimming, playing a second year of t-ball and soccer, starting 1st grade and taking taekwondo. He’s taking it all in stride, and while he still doesn’t roll smoothly into new things, it’s definitely getting better.

Starting first grade was so much easier than kindergarten, after the initial transition of a new teacher and not having all his friends in his class. He knew where to go and what the school routine was like, what recess and lunch were like, the office staff (and yes, he’s visited them a few times this year already!). And he can read—oh, can he read! It just clicked at the end of the school year and now he’s reading everything. Street signs (a la NuNu), the sports page, the directions on his homework which he then does independently, Audrey’s books, my email and Facebook (eek!). He reads silently to himself sometimes, and I just stare at him in amazement! He loves math too, and while he’s still far too busy to sit down and write much, the fine motor part of writing is much easier now.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s that he’s rocketing past me and away from me in so many ways, and that’s the part that’s hard. He tells me “no kisses” when I take him to school, and seriously rolled his eyes at me one day when he saw me peeking in his classroom window. I’m sure his thought bubble said, “OMG my mom is so weird. Look at her out there looking at me. Go away, mom!”

The other day I said something sappy like, “Do you know what I was doing seven years ago today?” and he actually let me start telling him the story of being on bedrest and my water breaking and going into the hospital. Then in the middle of the story, he interrupted me to ask if I knew the score of the Philadelphia game. Hmmmph.

Example #1 of ways he’s way past me: Sports. The boy is turning into a sports mini-encyclopedia, just like his daddy. He is constantly spouting off stats, wanting to know which team is ranked in which place in the top 25, who won the game, who’s the best player, who’s the worst team in each league, and he knows the players’ names and numbers. And while he’s still a fair-weather fan who likes to root for the team with a winning season, I feel a deep love of the Huskies coming on, just like his daddy.
Example #2: Taekwondo. We started a class at the YMCA, and he loves it. I was overwhelmed just watching, but he’s clicked with it and really learned the moves. Up until this point, I could follow along with his soccer and baseball, but now, he’s beyond me. It’s a different world, with “yes ma’am” and “no sir” to the instructors, although we could use a little more yes ma’am at home, that’s for sure. But it’s something about the white uniform and the serious concentration and the way he has just learned by watching (the “fake it ‘til you make it” instruction is given a lot in class) and not by ME SHOWING HIM. Pat has gone with him to class a lot, and helped him with some of the moves, but really, he’s just a student in a class learning from the instructor. And that’s such a big kid thing.

He is an amazing big brother. His little sister adores him, and with good reason. He plays along with her bossy little games, watches her preschool cartoons, and sometimes with a wink and a whisper from me, will let her think she’s winning. He is so proud to play the “big kid.” His class had a Thanksgiving feast, and he let her come sit in his lap while the class was watching a video—later he told me he was kind of embarrassed, but I saw how proud he was. Of course they wrestle and fight and tease, but they also snuggle and play and laugh. Lots of laughing around here—usually about poop or other bodily functions or something silly that involves throwing a ball inside way too hard.

Seven. He has so much ahead of him, and I’m so proud of the boy he’s becoming. I just can’t quite figure out how he got from there

and there

to here.

Happy Birthday, Big Seven.

Of course you are!

Bitty Girl is suddenly interested in letter sounds, mostly thanks to the Sound of the Week in preschool. This week was "C," so they were talking about cupcakes and construction and cats.

At dinner tonight she was making the hard "c" sound, saying "cat, cut, cookie, cracker..."

I said, "And what are you drinking from?" (Thinking she'd say CUP, of course.)

Bitty Girl: "A STRAW!"

And she was. But at least she didn't tell me that straw doesn't start with "c."

More big than Bitty

(No, this is not his first day of school outfit. He starts next week)

Bitty Girl went to preschool today. Same classes where her brother went two years ago.

Actual conversation on Tuesday:

Brother: "I think Bitty Girl is going to be a little more nervous than I am this year because she's going to a new school and I'm just going into a new class."
Bitty Girl: "I'm not nervous!" (scampers away giggling)

And she really wasn't. Just tired. Good thing she doesn't go again until Tuesday.

Lots of kids, mostly boys, crying. She went right for the ponies and didn't give me a second look.

The "Special Dinner for the Night Before School Starts," Part I

(Part II comes Monday for her brother)

She requested the flowers on the table, eating in the dining room, macaroni & cheese, soft carrots with brown sugar sauce, strawberries, and chocolate cake with pink frosting and lots of writing on it.

Like sands through the hourglass

Who are these big kids and what have they done with my babies?

Bitty Girl got a haircut and suddenly she's not so bitty.

(and who looks just a wee bit like her big brother?)

The Boy lost his first tooth

and then his second one a week later!

The Tooth Fairy is tired, and Mama isn't quite sure how we got here so fast.

Not to be outdone on the bike riding

A few days ago, she couldn't even turn the pedals herself.


She's a true Boss, even when riding her bike







and after a few turns, she refused all offers of help!

Way to go, Bitty Girl!!!

Snap! go the apron strings

Tonight I’m snuggling w/The Boy before bed, and it’s hot, so I’m wearing a tank top. His arm must have brushed against my underarm, because suddenly, he says, “What was that?”

I inspected, and it’s not that bad – I think I just didn’t shave this morning. I explain that it’s where I need to shave under my arms and he looks completely astonished.
“You have hair under there?”
I am slightly baffled as to why this is shocking to him, do the “we are mammals” talk, and We talked about Daddy’s whiskers and how he’ll have them on his face someday.

I told him how if I didn’t shave, it would look like Daddy’s armpits.
I wish I had a picture of his face—completely repulsed and slightly heartbroken. It’s not like he has trouble finding fault w/me, but I think it goes against the Mommy smooth skin for cuddling thing.

His exact words, “That is totally disgusting.”

Then when I went back in there a little later, he said, “Mom, next time you come in my bed, could you wear a shirt? That was gross.”

I complain all the time about how he’s too attached to me, so maybe I should throw away my razor.

But I was a little sad to see him think I was totally disgusting.

Wait until holding his hand or kissing him goodbye falls in that same category.

The final stretch

Today The Boy celebrates the end of kindergarten. Friday is the official last day of school, but today is the ceremony.

He decided to start the party a day early by calling a 2nd grader a jackass on the bus yesterday. Because another friend told him he wouldn't be his friend UNLESS he called the bigger kid a jackass. Lovely. He lost Pokemon card privileges for the week and got a nice dose of "If someone tells you to do something you know is wrong..." but I promise I didn't ask him if his friend jumped off a bridge, would he follow?

But back to my nostalgia. The end of kindergarten. Excuse me while I get a tissue.

He has had an amazing year. He had a fantastic teacher, who in spite of being about to give birth any day, has managed to make it through the year. She is kind and understanding and puts up with an energetic class that includes many livewire boys.

This year the Boy learned to read, to write, tons of math concepts like addition, subtraction, partners of 10, teen numbers, all about isopods (bugs like those roly poly bugs), sea life, riding the school bus, took two field trips, had recess with big kids, played on a soccer team, played an entire t-ball season without breaking his arm, and learned how to appropriately use "asshole" and "jackass" in a sentence.

He made new friends, STILL hasn't lost a tooth, learned all about Bakugan and Pokemon and how everyone has been to Disneyland except for him. Oh, he learned how to say something "sucks," too. As in "You suck because everyone else in my class has been to Disneyland but me."

In September, writing was an excruciating task that he would speed through as quickly as possible. Now, if he's motivated and interested in the subject, he'll write a 10 page book. And by motivated, I mean that NuNu offered to pay him 50 cents a story.

We're ready for summer, but not before we celebrate an amazing year of milestones.

Congratulations to our boy. We are so, so proud of you. But we could do without the curse words.
Pictures from the "graduation" ceremony...

They read out loud their pictures of "What I liked best about kindergarten." Almost every kid said P.E. the field trip to the beach that was 2 weeks ago, or making gingerbread houses. You gotta love kindergarteners. I'm sure his teacher is wondering why she bothered with all that useless math and reading, or even being nice to them.

Thanks to Grandma and Papa for coming!

reluctantly posing with his annoying mom

Showing Grandma his memory book

And from the trip to Baskin Robbins later - waffle cone double scoop!

A Very Bossy Birthday

I have a feeling that 3 will bring bossy to a whole new level.

This morning she woke us up saying, "I'm not a baby anymore. I'm a big girl. Wanna wrestle?"

We had a fun weekend, trying not to overdo the birthday business. Partly for the birthday girl, and partly for the older brother who really tried his best not to be jealous that someone else was getting all the presents.

There were treats, including Mommy's attempt at a "pastel petit fours" recipe. They were yummy, but somehow I have a feeling that Martha Stewart felt a cold chill run down her spine sometime around 2 pm Friday afternoon.

There were cousins, and she loved watching them argue about who got to sit next to her.

(notice the big brother face, and the look that she's giving him)

and grandparents (Nanny and Papa's turn is next weekend)

There were balloons

(again, note who volunteered to help her hold them but couldn't hide his true feelings)

And there was a Princess bike from Grandma and Papa.

Heaven help us all. Welcome to three. Nothing like a set of training wheels to inspire your big brother to master that two-wheeled business!

Today she had birthday lunch at Red Robin

was slightly overwhelmed with the birthday singing

had a dip in the pool at home this afternoon,

and wore herself out.

Happy Birthday, Madam Three!

Free

Bitty Girl,

Somehow, you are three.

Although you are the smallest member of the family, you take up an enormous space in our lives. You boss us around, often using my actual tone of voice, which is frightening. You make us all laugh with your high-pitched giggle, your deep belly laugh, and the throaty cackle you love to use—it’s your evil laugh.

You are mischievous, good natured, sweet and loving, LOUD, and energetic. You prefer to run or gallop as a means of transportation, but can often be found walking on your tiptoes or spinning in circles. This tendency for speed plus silliness has resulted in many scraped knees, and I think you have permanent bruises on your shins.

You do so many things fiercely, and mainly want to do them YOURSELF. Anyone attempting to help or control the way you do things is sternly rebuked, with words and seriously downturned eyebrows. “DON’T HELP ME. DO IT MYSELF!” The stink eye was perfected long ago, but now you’ve added a sharp elbow fold, downcast eyes, pouting lip, and a head shake that causes a curtain of hair to cover your eyes.

A master negotiator, you always come ready to bargain. If I say “One more slide,” you say “TWO!” If I say “Five more minutes,” you say “SIX!” If you don’t win on the first round, you keep trying relentlessly. Or you simply ignore me and go about your business, swatting away the irritating buzzing of that Mommy trying to control you. The other day, you asked me if you could “go outside and boss The Boy and Daddy around,” and then told me “I’m not their coach, I’m their leader.”

You still drop the initial “s” off a lot of your sp- or st- words, and we’ve gotten quite skilled at hiding our smirks when you ask for a “poovie” (smoothie) or a “poon” or tell us to “TOP” doing something.

Your dramatic play has reached new levels, and you tell us elaborate stories about how your baby was “kicking and fussing, and I tried to give him Tylenol but he really wanted Motrin* and he cried and cried and he barfed on his pillow yesterday and today he barfed on his covers. I had to work, so Daddy took him to the doctor.” Looking at your facial expressions and hand gestures during these stories, you would think you were really an exhausted, overworked mother trying to soothe her sick baby.

*And you’re addicted to Tylenol, which explains why you use the drug names perfectly in your stories. If the bathroom cabinet opens or you see a bottle of medicine, you clutch your forehead and say that you have a headache or you feel sick. Never mind that just a mere two minutes earlier you were twirling around jumping on a bed or chasing your brother.

You love to sing, draw, cut “snips” with scissors, glue pieces of paper onto each other, paint, play outside, make houses for the bugs, dig in the dirt, water flowers, do projects and homework just like your big brother. Your fine motor skills astonish me—you can pick tiny stickers off the sheet, cut tiny snips of paper, and hold a crayon or a pen just like a big kid.

You are a solid southpaw – throwing, kicking, eating, and writing all lefty. I’m secretly delighted, but I already feel bad you’ll have the same smudging issue I always did. And you have developed quite an arm – all the months of watching your brother play baseball has paid off.

You love your babies – still love to play “Trinity” daycare and have all the babies laid out face-down with their individual blankets having naptime. You are sweet and nurturing, talking quietly to them, feeding them and setting out lunch or snack on individual plates for each baby. You are constantly busy changing their diapers when they “poop in their clothes” or “have stinky poops,” and you must have a wipe to clean it up. Some of our loudest laughter comes from the sessions where one of us is forced to take part in naptime. Facedown, with a blanket, no exceptions or special treatment for family. Once you told Daddy he couldn’t even breathe.

In some ways, you are fearless. You love to swing high on the big swings (Mama clutches her heart here), and demand bigger underdog pushes. But certain masks and monsters are “too –cary.” We made the mistake of taking you along to the “Walking with Dinosaurs” show, and you only lasted 5 minutes. Sorry about that.

We put you in daycare two days a week last fall, and while you’ve adjusted fabulously, made friends, learned a million songs, and brought home 10,000 art projects, you just don’t love it. You resist going in the morning, and I just think it’s too long a day. We’re making a change for the fall that will shorten your day and give you more Mama time.

Lately we hear you singing snippets of songs from school: Old McDonald, Farmer in the Dell, ABC, Twinkle Twinkle, various versions of grace from preschool.

Suddenly, you are completely potty trained. After a few weeks of boycotting after a few months of stickers on the calendar as a reward, we finally went cold turkey, thanks to your preschool teacher. Almost immediately you were dry all day—and all night, with very few accidents. We caved to jellybeans to get you to use the potty, but you have agreed to stop on your birthday. While we’re trying not to wish away all the baby stuff, diapers is one thing we will not miss.

You love your brother, constantly following him around, copying him, and often terrorizing him. You are lucky that he loves being with you most of the time. You often play together for long stretches, and sometimes even without fighting. I’ll admit it, he is obnoxious and sometimes too rough with you. But you hold your own, and are often too quick to smack him or bite him. I’m torn between my own experience as an older sister who knows all about how annoying little sisters can be and trying to protect you from your big brother who sometimes doesn’t control himself well. And I can’t let you hit him, but I’m secretly proud of you for sticking up for yourself. One minute you’re smacking him, and then five minutes after I separate you, you sneak back together and I hear you comforting him in a game of pretend—“It’s ok sweetie!” So I really can’t complain—much.

Three years has gone by so fast. Lots of chaos, lots of mess, lots and lots of noise. More than we expected, I think. But we’re coming out of the fog, and I can actually see some things getting easier. When you and your brother play together and make each other laugh, or snuggle together before bed, it makes it all worthwhile. We didn’t have another baby because we felt like we had to have two kids, but because we wanted you to have each other. And you do—we do. We hope for more better than worse, and will try to remember the good times.

Love,
Mommy