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Dear Kaylee,

This has been a crazy month for you.  Or at least, it has been a crazy month for me, watching you go through a bunch of stuff you might not even remember when you’re older. First and foremost, of course, was your surgery. Watching you experience that was the hardest thing I’ve had to do as your mother. Childbirth was nothing compared to this, because even when the epidural stopped working and I was such intense pain, at least I was the only one suffering. Watching you suffer is so much worse. All I could do was hold you and let you sob and wail that you wanted to go home. I whispered in your ear that you were going to be ok, but you were crying so hard I don’t think you heard me.

I’ve said over and over that one of my worries as a mother is that your earliest memory will be something awful.  While I want you to remember playing Play-Doh with your daddy, you’ll end up hanging onto that skinned knee you got in the driveway.  So of course, this surgery currently tops the list of things I hope you’ll forget about.  You were kind of excited when we got to the hospital that day, but it didn’t take long before you got a little worried.  By the time the anesthesiologist stopped by to brief us, I could tell you were getting downright scared.  When I told the doctor that his normal procedure for calming kids was probably not going to work on you, he prescribed something to “calm you down” beforehand.  At first it worked, and I admit it was pretty entertaining to watch your head bob and listen to your words slur like you were a college freshman at your first kegger.  But the fun ended quickly when you realized you couldn’t control your body anymore.  From then on, if you were awake you were crying. When I carried you into the operating room – which, by the way, taught me how important your cooperation is when I’m carrying you down a long hallway – the anesthesiologist seemed mildly horrified that his plan to calm you had backfired so badly.  He tried to comfort me by saying you probably wouldn’t remember any of this – the sobbing, the lying on the table, the operating room.  The anesthesiologist put a mask on your face and told you a little story to explain the odor of the gas you were breathing in – a story about a little pig that is very, very friendly, but smells very bad.  But he’s a nice pig, and he makes you feel sleepy.

I took some solace in the idea that you wouldn’t remember that trauma … for about a day.  Because that’s how long it took you to bring it up.  We were playing with Legos when you looked at me and said, “That man told me a story.” “What man, sweetie?” I asked.  “When I was laying on the bed, the man told me a story.” “What was the story about?” “A pig.”  Oh.  Well.  So much for that idea.  You’ve also reminded us about the pink medicine that made you feel sick, and how you threw up in the driveway when we got home from the hospital.  But you don’t seem sad, scared or angry when you mention these things.  You say them matter-of-factly, as if you’re commenting on the weather.  I think you’ll be just fine.

All the emotional trauma aside, your eye looks so much better.  You still get comments from people in public – “You should sit down in that cart, kid, or you’re going to get another black eye!” – that make me want to smack people and say hateful things to them.  I want to grab them by the shoulders and yell, “Yes, she has an angry red mark on her face, but she’s beautiful and healthy and bythewayfuckyou.”  It’s possible I’m a little defensive.  But one of these days it should heal up all the way with minimal scarring, and we will be very lucky people if this is the worst thing that ever happens to you.

In other news, you’ve been going out of your way to try my patience lately.  You ask me questions that have no correct answer, and you scream your little head off no matter how I respond.  I often think a question is innocuous, only to find out you’re deeply concerned with the answer. “Is this chocolate milk old?” “Yeah, I’ll get you some new chocolate milk.”  “NOOOOOO!  I DON’T WANT CHOCOLATE MILK!!  WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”  These conversations are, ahem, frustrating.  I’m trying to stand my ground a little more firmly these days, to let you know this behavior is not acceptable.  A cashier at Bed, Bath and Beyond the other day seemed to think I was the Asshole Mother of the Year because I refused to let you change your mind about what little toy you wanted to buy.  She didn’t know you’d already changed your mind a few times and would likely spend ten minutes deciding whether you wanted the cow keychain or the penguin keychain, while the line lengthened behind us.  So I made you stick with the quacking duck pen you’d already picked out and you threw a little fit while the cashier quietly judged me for being a bitch.  I used to judge mothers, too, when I saw them taking a stand on something seemingly unimportant, like a stupid little duck pen.  Why won’t she just let her pick something else?  It’s not that big of a deal, I would have thought.  I didn’t understand that it’s never just the pen, that kids will always try to push you one step farther, and then one more, and before you know it they’re running the whole household.  So your father and I are trying.  We’re trying to mold you into someone a little less tyrannical and a little more friendly.  It helps if we reward you with stickers.

You are also completely unexcited about Robbie’s increasing coordination and mobility.  Sure, you’ll help me cheer him on and try to get him to crawl, but once you realize he’s headed for your toys, the cheering stops and the whining begins.  We’ve had more than one conversation about how “but I don’t want him to touch my stuff” is not a good enough reason to snatch a stuffed animal away from him and make him cry.  During your surgery, Robbie spent two nights at Gram and Papa’s apartment.  Every time we’ve gone back, you’ve been crushed to hear we’re not leaving him there again.  You used to get upset when I’d joke about leaving him behind somewhere, but now you think it sounds like a great idea.  I’m sorry, kiddo, but we’re going to have to keep him.

No offense, but I’m glad this month is over.  We’ve passed the surgery milestone, but we’re headed for more challenges in the coming weeks.  I believe we’ll be all right. But if the changes are too much for you, just know that I will always, always be here for you if you need to put your head on my shoulder and cry.

I love you, my little monkey butt.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

We are still dealing with your eye lump.  Ugh.  Every morning and every night is devoted to holding a warm compress to your face for as long as you’ll let me — right now you’ll let me sing the ABCs, followed by “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” followed by counting to 15 — and then smearing medicine on it.  It’s looking better, but everyone who sees you still asks what happened to your face.  We took you to McDonald’s over the weekend for ice cream and play time, and you immediately befriended another little girl.  At one point, she took a quick break from playing to run over to her father and say, “There’s something wrong with her eye.  Should we do something?”  I’m really looking forward to the day when strangers are no longer inspired to pity when they look at you.  Probably only slightly less than you are looking forward to that day.

I kind of feel like a bad mom because of that eye, too.  About a week ago, we had random run-ins with two doctors that we hadn’t met before, and both of them commented on your eye “infection.”  At our appointment three weeks ago, the eye doctor said it didn’t seem infected and declined to prescribe antibiotics, so I was convinced you were fine.  Until those doctors made those comments last week.  Then I scrolled through old blog entries, came across this photo and literally gasped with shock.  Because as bad as I thought your eye looked on the day of that appointment, it looked so much worse last week.  How could I not have noticed that?  Here you were, walking around with an obvious infection on your face, and I just missed it.  I called your eye doctor’s office and we got a prescription for amoxicillin to carry us through until your follow-up visit today.  You’ve been on it since Friday, and already your eye looks so much better.  I’m not looking forward to that doctor’s visit, though.  This thing was supposed to be almost cleared up by now, and it’s just not.  I hope the doctor gives it a little more time.  I don’t want the answer to be surgery.

This month has brought with it an increase in jealousy in our house.  Your brother is no longer too little to do every little thing you do, and it’s starting to bug you.  Whenever he gets to try something new, like drinking water from a sippy cup, suddenly you have to do it, too.  I have a feeling you’ll be demanding jars of baby food in the next few weeks, and we’ll be tasked with convincing you that the food you get to eat is way, way better.  The problem with this strategy is that, someday, Robbie will get to eat the way better food, too.  Someday you’ll have to face the reality that Robbie’s going to get to do all the same stuff you do, and you’ll just have to deal with it.  I am not looking forward to the screaming.

You’ve increased your ability to make things up this month, too.  We’ll be hanging out, watching an episode of “The Backyardigans” for the bazillionth time and you’ll launch into a story about how you climbed a ladder and went way up to the sky and jumped and caught a butterfly and saw a pony and ate an ice cream cone, and we just smile and nod and say, “Oh yeah?”  We want to encourage this imaginative streak, especially because I keep reading that all this TV I’m letting you watch is killing your creativity.  (Just imagine how creative you’d be if I didn’t let you watch television.  Good lord, that would be a level of insanity I’m not sure I could deal with.)

You speak so well these days and in such perfect, complete sentences that sometimes I just stare at you in wonder of how far you’ve come.  I pulled an old memory card out of my camera bag over the weekend and used it to take a few pictures before discovering some old photos from two years ago.  Look at this:

And look you now:

In the space of those two years, you have become an opinionated, wonderful, talkative, sweet, surly, crazy, beautiful little monster/princess/angel/devil, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

You look so pathetic right now.   I don’t mean that in a condescending way, or a hateful way, or in any way but one borne of pure sympathy.  I can’t look at you right now without feeling sorry for you, because your right eye just looks so awful.

You have a clogged mucous duct – at least that’s the current belief – that has caused a lump to form in your lower eyelid.  As time has gone on, your lump has gotten bigger and redder, and antibiotics, warm compresses and massage have done nothing to improve the situation.  You’re taking it like a champ, though.  Even though you didn’t like it at all, you eventually started letting us put drops in your eye, and you’ve let me touch it and examine it every day with minimal complaining.  I wish the medicine had been a magical cure, though, and that each time you’ve asked, “Is my lump gone?” after receiving a drop, I could have said yes.  We have an appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist next week to get that sucker taken care of, and I just hopehopehope that whatever needs to be done won’t be traumatic for you.  Because, ugh.  Of all places for you to be poked and prodded, it has to be your eye?  Don’t worry, baby.  I’ll be there to hold your hand and give you hugs and kisses.

I often wonder about the adult you, twenty years from now, looking back on your childhood.  What will be your earliest memory?  Will you remember the day your brother was born?  Will you remember getting to choose the color for your new room in your new house?  What is the exact moment your memories will start?  I only have vague recollections from the time I was your age.  I kind of remember a Twiki robot that my cousin destroyed.  (Apparently I can hold a grudge for a really long time, because I’m still sort of annoyed that he broke it.)  I also remember being excited about getting a red Crayola trashcan as a gift.  (I also got excited about odd things.)  My memories from early childhood aren’t fluid and continuous, but little vignettes that aren’t connected to anything else.  So what’s going to be that one event that stands out to you from this time in your life?  As we head into a potentially traumatic experience with doctors and maybe needles (?), I find myself thinking, Please, please, don’t let this be it.  Just let this event slide into history without notice.  But I keep forgetting that you’re you, and there’s a strong chance you’ll handle this bravely, like you have every other challenge.

I took you to the mall today because you requested it and we had nothing better to do.  Naturally, you wanted to go straight to the play area, where stairs lead to the top of snow-covered mountains and slides spill down the sides.  When I introduced you to this play area, you wouldn’t even climb the stairs for fear some other kid would bump into you or look at you funny.  Today, you invented a game where you climbed up the side of a play mountain (not using the stairs, but just skittering up the side), slid down the steep, bumpy non-slide and slammed into the floor.  You thought it was hilarious and kept yelling, “Watch, Mom!” from across the play area.  I watched and cheered you on, because you seemed to be having a lot of fun.  Robbie distracted me for a moment, and I was only half paying attention the last time you called for me to watch your trick.  I just smiled and nodded as you waved to me from atop the mountain, expecting you to slide down again from that position four and a half feet in the air.  And then you jumped.  My God, girl, you jumped from four and a half feet in the air.  That’s significantly taller than you are.  I wouldn’t have jumped off of that, even in my most adventurous days.  You did not land well.  I didn’t see exactly what happened because play equipment was blocking my view, but I saw the looks of horror on bystanders’ faces and I heard you wailing.  When you limped over to me, holding your arm and sobbing, I saw the expression of concern on the face of another mother who came by to check on you.  I cradled you as well as I could, doing my best to calm your panicked sobs.  When the tears finally subsided, you looked up at me with your eyes still wet and said, “Can I try it again?”

This month you have developed a gift for entertaining your brother, and you use it every day.  We’ve discovered that he thinks it’s funny when you jump off the stairs – the second step from the bottom, because I won’t let you jump from higher up like you want to.  He also likes it when you make faces at him in the car.  I’ll be driving along, thinking the two of you are sleeping, when suddenly I’ll hear Robbie break into belly laughs because you’re quietly playing peak-a-boo with him.  You have figured out where his giggle button is, and you push it whenever you can.  Tonight, just before I took Robbie upstairs for bedtime, you kissed him on the head and said, “I love my brother,” and melted my heart.

I love you, sweetheart.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

Are you sure you’re three years old?  I mean, really?  There’s no way.  Three???  How is it possible you’ve been in our lives for 36 months?  That’s 1,095 days.  It’s 26,280 minutes.  You mean to tell me that your dad and I have kept a human being alive and busy for 26,280 minutes?  I just … I can’t believe it.

The other day I started filling out a questionnaire for our school district’s preschool program, which is free but only open to kids who “need” it.  So they ask you questions about your child, like whether s/he can identify at least five capital letters, whether s/he can identify colors and if s/he knows how many fingers are on one hand.  Then they evaluate the answers and decide whether to place you on the waiting list for preschool.  I sort of lost interest in filling it out, because after all the “yes” answers I gave, I’m pretty sure you’re not getting in.  I did have to honestly say “no” for a few of the skills, like cutting with scissors and drawing a picture of a person with at least three features.  (I’ve never given you scissors to cut with because you are clumsy and I am not insane, and you tend to give up on coloring after you’ve scratched a single line across a piece of paper.)  If anything, it gave me a list of things to work on with you.  Except, you keep going and scratching things off the list without me having to do anything.  Yesterday at Gram and Papa’s house, you grabbed a marker and a piece of paper and drew a person with eyes, nose, mouth, ear and hair.  You still can’t have scissors, though, until I have a chance to go to the store and buy you a pair that won’t break your skin.

I’m still struggling with the preschool question, though.  I’d like you to have the opportunity to ease into the whole school thing, but I was really hoping to send you to preschool at the same elementary school you will actually attend in a couple of years.  Plus, did I mention that one was free?  I’m not positive we can scrape together the money for a private preschool program in the fall, not unless I start making some money off this blog (ha! I tell funny jokes, especially since I don’t have, you know, ads on this web site) or get a part-time job or quit going to the gym that has saved my sanity.  Part of me is like, wow, I can’t believe I would put my gym membership above my kid’s preschool tuition.  Another part of me is like, why the hell does my kid need to start school at three years old?  Because, what?  If you don’t get circle time this year you’ll never get into Harvard?  If we wait until you’re four, you’ll end up at a state university?  If you don’t go to preschool at all, you’ll be lucky to manage community college?  And oh man, this next thing I’m going to say is probably going to have some other mothers gasping and shaking their heads, but I just don’t think preschool is that big of a deal.  Maybe I’ll change my mind in time to get you into a preschool program this fall.  Maybe I won’t.  I’m guessing you’ll end up in preschool next year, at least, because I might just need a break from our quality time together.

It’s so weird to be thinking about school for you, since I’m pretty sure you were just born the other day.  I so vividly remember holding you for the first time, your lower lip quivering at the trauma you’d just been through, and feeling complete awe at the realization that I’d brought a new life into the world.  And now you’re running and jumping off of stuff and covering the lower half of your body in bruises because you won’t let anything slow you down, be it animal, vegetable or inconveniently placed coffee table.  You know the word “humongous.”  You point out every octagon you see.  You’ve recently begun declaring things are “gross.”  You can count to twenty.  You can give attitude like the angstiest, surliest teenager you ever did see.

And you have become the most enthusiastic big sister.  You are right there with me every day, encouraging your brother to play with his toys and try to roll over.  When he gets discouraged, you get down on your hands and knees and demonstrate, saying, “Watch, brother!  Roll over like this!”  Then you roll back and forth like a dog scratching his back, sit back up and say, “You can do it, buddy!”  Even when I’ve given you the opportunity to admit any distaste for this cute little interloper, you’ve only ever demonstrated concern for his well-being.  If I say, “Maybe we should just leave brother at Gram and Papa’s house,” you insist that he comes home with us.  He is yours, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.  You are the best big sister.

And now you are three years old.  THREE.  On days like today, I can’t help but feel like someone has hit the fast-forward button, and tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and find that it’s time to drive you off to college.  (A crappy one, since I didn’t put you in preschool.)  These past 26,280 minutes have been so life-changing and important and wonderful for me.  I love being your mom.  Even during the minutes when I didn’t think I was good enough for you, the ones when you’ve used me as a target for all of your frustrations, the ones where you’ve thrown up on me, peed on me or sobbed in my arms – every minute has been worth it, because I’ve spent them with you.  You live joyfully (unless you’re tired or hungry), and you’re full of so much sparkle and life, that even on the worst days I’m never truly unhappy.  I can’t be unhappy, because you are my daughter.

Happy birthday, my beautiful girl.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

I’m going to start this letter with an apology: I’m sorry to have made your life more difficult in the last couple of days, but you’ve handled it like a champ.  (I’m also sorry that poop is going to feature so heavily in this letter.)  See, two days ago I banned diapers from your life.  You were not especially amused.  We’ve been working on this potty training thing for more than a year, and you’ve done so well.  You never have accidents and you’re more than willing to drop everything and go have a pee … but you wouldn’t use the potty for number two.  Instead, you were demanding a diaper, which meant that (1) you were never pooping in the potty, and (2) I was having to wipe your ass more often than I really wanted to.  (Except sometimes, completely randomly, you would decide to poop in the potty and I’d think we’d made a breakthrough.  And then you’d go right back to refusing.)  So lately, I’ve been trying to come up with new strategies to entice you to use the potty more often.  I’ve heard that rewards work for other people’s kids, and so I started offering you one M&M for peeing in the potty and two M&Ms for pooping in the potty.  You were unimpressed.  So we moved up to miniature cupcakes as a reward for pooping.  You thought it was a great idea, in theory, but whenever the time came to earn a cupcake, you always decided you could live without.

And so it was time to get drastic.  Over the weekend, I told you over and over that the diapers would be gone on Monday.  When I quizzed you by asking, “What happens on Monday?”, you’d answer “No more diapers!”  But when Monday came, you were a bit dismayed to find out I’d been serious. When you had to poop, you once again asked for a diaper, and you didn’t believe me when I said they were gone.  “Let’s go check!” you said, running up the stairs to your room and finding that I was not, in fact, lying to you.  Rather than throwing the screaming fit I was expecting, you just resigned yourself to the fact that you were going to have to be a big girl now, and you earned yourself a cupcake.  I am so proud of you for handling it so well.

Unfortunately, because I’ve banned diapers during the day, I’ve had to ban them at night, too.  If I give you even the slightest hint that I’ve only hidden the diapers away in my closet, I’ll be in for a major battle.  So if I offer you a diaper at night so you don’t pee all over your bed, then this whole sudden-death potty training thing will fail. And so, you’re now wearing underwear to bed at night, too.  So far it’s been a laundry-inducing experience.  But we’re going to keep it up, and I’m hoping we’ll be (more or less) past the bed-wetting stage in the coming weeks.  I really hope so, because you sleep in my bed a lot.

Potty training is just one of the many ways you’re seeming so big these days.  You’ve started joking around with us, saying absurd things and then declaring, “It was just a joke!” with a big grin on your face.  You get melodramatic sometimes – something you picked up from your cousin Hope – and cry, “We’re never, ever going to go to Gram and Papa’s house!” And several times a week you’ll use a word that I didn’t even know you knew, and you’ll use it in the correct context.  Sometimes I catch a glimpse of your face from a certain angle and I see that your baby fat is melting away, and the face of a beautiful little girl is emerging, and I wonder how I got so lucky as to have you in my life.

We joined a gym this month, and at first I was worried about how you’d react to being dropped off there with a bunch of kids you don’t know.  As I mentioned, you can be dramatic sometimes, and I didn’t know if you’d lay on a guilt trip or just go with the flow.  Thankfully, you love it.  Every single time I pick you up after a leaving you at the gym daycare for a while, you say, “Hi Mommy, that was fun!” and then you regale me with stories of what you did while I was gone. Today’s activities had something to do with yelling “Choo, choo!” and making ice cream cones out of blocks.  I don’t really understand what that means, but I’m more than happy to listen to you talk about it.

There’s only one month left until you hit three years old.  I don’t think I get to call you a toddler anymore – in fact, I probably should have stopped that by now.  You’ll be old enough to play with the big kids at the gym, old enough to start preschool in the fall (assuming your mother gets around to researching that), and past the age where we can get you free meals at Country Buffet and free admission to zoos and museums.  There’s a movie called “Dan In Real Life,” in which Steve Carrel’s character points at his young daughter and says, “You. Stop growing.”  Your dad and I have had so many of those moments in the past couple of months, where it seems like you’re getting big much too quickly.  It’s like someone hit the fast-forward button, and tomorrow we’ll be arguing over whether or not your slacker boyfriend is good enough for you.  I feel like this ride we’re on is speeding up, when all I really want is to slow it down and make sure we eke out every bit of fun possible before we hit the teenage years and you start hating me.  But regardless of how fast it goes, I’m so glad to be on this ride with you.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

Let me tell you a story.  Today we went to the zoo so you could feed crackers to the giraffes, ride a pony and see if your tiger was anywhere to be seen.  Daddy made the mistake of telling you before bed last night, so from the moment you woke up this morning, all you could talk about was the zoo.  “Are we going to the zoo now?” “When are we going to the zoo?”  “After nap?  Can I take a nap now?”  When we finally got there, the giraffes weren’t so interested in the crackers, the ponies weren’t giving rides, and the elephants had been taken inside.  You handled it all (mostly) like a champ, and we still managed to enjoy ourselves despite the chilly weather.

One advantage to the chill, though, was that a lot of the animals that are normally hiding out in the shade were up and wandering around in plain sight.  For example, we’ve never ever seen the snow leopard up close.  So when we stood outside his enclosure today, we were happy to see that he was not only in plain sight, but he was also looking right at us.  When he saw that we’d spotted him, he walked away, feigning nonchalance, but as we turned to talk to each other again, the snow leopard began to stalk our way.  We looked up.  He stopped and looked around, aloof.  Then he apparently decided, “I’m going to play a game with the tourists.”  He looked me right in the eye, got to his feet, and started walking toward us.  Neat! I thought, Kaylee’s going to get to see the snow leopard up close.  Then he started jogging toward us.  Hmmm, what are his plans? I wondered.  And then he sprinted at us, took a big leap, and banged into the glass right in front of our faces. Although logically I knew the glass was probably cat-proof, there’s no way to experience having a giant predator leaping at your face without your heart briefly stopping.  I was sure you’d panic – and, admittedly, I was a bit shaken myself – so I snatched you up and walked away.  I expected hysterics to start immediately, but instead you looked at me, smiled, and said, “That was funny!”

You are a mystery to me, girl.  You panic at the sound of a vacuum cleaner.  You’re scared of my hair dryer, the flushing sound of public toilets, and getting your face wet.  But when an enormous cat that would happily eat you for a snack jumps right at your head, you laugh.  We’ve come a long way from the lobster incident.

Your third birthday is just two months away now, and I’m constantly amazed by how grown up you seem these days.  You hold long conversations with your friends about The Backyardigans and going to the zoo.  You say please and thank you (usually) without being told.  Tonight you got a washcloth from the linen closet, wet it with a little water in the bathroom and cleaned a spot of strawberry smoothie off of your stomach, all by yourself.  Where I once worried that my shy little girl would never work up the nerve to play at a playground with kids she didn’t know, you’re now more than willing to strike up a conversation with anyone and everyone.  At the doctor’s office yesterday, you told the nurse all about how you lost your watch and couldn’t find it anywhere.  As we arrived at a playgroup last week, you announced, “I’m going to talk to Ella’s mommy.”  Sure enough, before we left, you sought out Ella’s mother and told her what was on your mind.  And when Papa and I took you swimming yesterday, you immediately befriended a 5-year-old boy, and within minutes you had him fetching you toys.

Maybe some of that confidence comes from the fact that you’re a BIG SISTER now.  You won’t let me call you a big girl anymore, and every time I do you immediately correct me with a loud, “I’m not a big girl, I’m a BIG SISTER.”  And you seem to love this new role, so much so that I hear you randomly telling strangers sometimes.  After our exercise class the other day, we stopped at the mall play area to tire you out so you’d nap when we got home, and before long, I could hear you telling other kids about your BIG SISTER status.  But part of that pride seems dependent on the fact that your brother can’t do anything yet.  It’s like you’re happy to have him here, but only because he’s too small to go after your toys.  If you’re having an ice cream cone, you feel compelled to point out that “Brother’s too little for ice cream, but I can have ice cream.”  If you decide to jump over a toy on the floor, you have to remind me that your brother’s too little to jump.  I dread the day Robbie scoots across the floor and wraps his tiny fingers around the leg of one of your stuffed animals, because I don’t know how you’ll react when you realize that he’s no longer too little to touch your stuff.

I do have to admit that you’ve been a little extra challenging lately, kiddo.  Maybe the terrible twos have finally arrived, or maybe some days you’re just a little bitter about having to share all the attention with your brother, but sometimes you’re just on a screamy little warpath.  Sometimes you request chocolate milk and then collapse in tears when I get it for you.  You often challenge everything I say, as if you think I’m just too stupid for words.  When did you become a surly teenager?  I have moments when I wish I could just shut you in your room for the day and let you fend for yourself, when you ignore everything I say, or start sobbing seemingly for the hell of it.  Some days I just don’t know how to handle you.

But even then, on those days when I can’t figure you out at all, when you’re yelling at me and refusing to cooperate, even on those days, there are so many other moments when you make me smile, make me laugh, and make me wonder how it’s even possible that I created such a wonderful person.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

This month has been a roller coaster for you.  On the day you hit 32 months, Daddy and I dropped you off at Grandma’s house and went to the hospital to get your baby brother.  Shortly after that, you suddenly had to wrap your little head around not being the center of the universe anymore.  The first week and a half were all right, because Daddy stayed home from work and we made a point to give you lots of attention.  But once he went back to work and it was just you, me and Robbie at home together all the time, it became clear to you that Mommy didn’t have enough arms to give you and your brother all the attention you both wanted, and you freaked out on me for a few days – a few hellish, awful days.  I seriously briefly considered selling you to the gypsies. Just as I began to worry that your personality shift was permanent and I became certain you were going to be the death of my sanity, you started returning to your old self.   I was so relieved I could have cried.  (That may have been post-pregnancy hormones.)  Since then, things have been much better.

We’ve made a big change regarding your sleeping habits this month: We kicked you out of our room.  You’d been sleeping in our bed right up until your brother was born, and we couldn’t bear to kick you out immediately after we brought him home.  And so all four of us slept in the same bed together, and never have I been more grateful to have a king-sized bed.  But eventually there came a point where I couldn’t take being punched in the face at 3 a.m. anymore, because I was also getting up every other hour to tend to your brother.  It took some convincing, but we now have you going to bed in your own room every night, with the understanding that if you wake up during the night and call us to come get you, you are allowed to spend the rest of the night with us.  Some nights you join us kind of early, and sometimes you stay in your own room all night.  Either way, I’m spending less time as a punching bag.  Beginning this week, you’re also napping in your own room, and it wasn’t even my suggestion.  The other day you noticed a set of Backyardigans sheets in the linen closet and asked me to put them on your bed.  And like magic, you’ve wanted to sleep in there every naptime since.  Suddenly your room is more than just a storage space for your clothes and toys, and I actually get a little time to myself every day.  And while I may just be spending that time on Facebook, it’s just enough to rejuvenate my spirit for the rest of the day.

The biggest problem with your new napping habits is that your naps are much shorter now that I’m not lying down with you.  We used to sleep half the day away together, but now you wake up from your nap and we still have the vast expanse of the afternoon to get through.  That’s not a big deal when we have a play group or a trip to Costco to look forward to, but on days when we have nothing planned, I panic a little about how to keep you entertained.  There are only so many Dora The Explorer marathons one can take.  Fortunately, you’ve come through for me on this front, too.  I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but lately you’ve ratcheted up your ability to pretend.  For the past couple of weeks, you’ve been inventing new games and demanding my participation, making me “drive” you to the store in my office chair, go shopping for groceries in your toy box, and searching imaginary shopping malls for Santa Claus so we can sit in his lap and ask for toys.  You tell us tales every day, ranging anywhere from “Santa loves grapes” to “Look, a giant!  He’s going to squish us!” You make us dinner in your play kitchen.  You hold conversations with your stuffed animals.  I love this new phase in your childhood, because every day I get to see your imagination at work.  As long as you don’t develop an imaginary friend that turns out to be an evil ghost, I hope this part lasts a while.

Now that you’ve accepted your brother’s presence in the household, you’ve also started wanting to help take care of him.  Mostly, you like to hold him in your lap, and he seems to like it too.  He gazes up at you with only the teensiest bit of concern, and quite a bit of interest.  Sometimes you talk about all the things you plan to teach him, like how to slide, how to swing, and how to jump off of the coffee table and give your mother a heart attack.  I have a feeling he’ll be following you around like a puppy, and I hope you’ll look after him a little.

Like I said, sweetheart, this month has had its ups and downs.  We’ve both yelled a little more and cried a little more, but we’re figuring it out together.  We’ll have to see what I say in another month, but right now I think we’re going to be all right.

Love,
Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

You’re not technically 32 months old yet, but I’m writing your letter early this time because I’m pretty sure I’ll be busy on the 13th.  What will I be busy doing, you wonder?  Why, I’ll be getting you a 32-month birthday present!  To be honest, I’m not sure you’ll like it much at first, but once you get used to having this gift around, I hope you’ll learn to love it.  Oh, the gift?  Well, I don’t suppose I’ll ruin the surprise by writing it here, since you don’t know how to read.  We’ll be getting you a baby brother.  And while we’re doing that, you’ll be spending a couple of days with Grandma, who is sure to spoil the hell out of you.  Hopefully that’ll make up for your homecoming, when you’ll suddenly find that you have to share your parents’ attention from then on.

I had my last doctor’s appointment on Friday, when we scheduled an induction for this coming Wednesday.  And as relieved as I felt to know that your baby brother WILL come out in the near future, I also suddenly felt very guilty.  When I picked you up from Gram and Papa’s house later that day, I just wanted to snuggle you and make you understand that you’re still – and always will be – my beautiful baby girl, no matter how many siblings you end up with.  Because that’s probably the thing I worry about the most, that by deciding to give you a baby brother, we’re going to make you feel cheated.  Now you’ll have to share our time and attention and love with this wiggly little interloper who cries all the time, and Mommy and Daddy will no longer be able to drop everything the moment you need us, every time.  Of course, logically, that is one of the reasons we want you to have a sibling.  To be a good person, you have to understand that the world actually does not revolve around you and you alone.  But it still seems like a harsh lesson for a two-year-old.

This month has been pretty good, packed with holidays and a ridiculous number of new toys for you.  Daddy took a bunch of time off work, and we’re only just now getting back into the old routines and getting used to seeing him off every morning again.  (Good time to add a baby to the mix, huh?)  This was the first year we really talked to you about Santa Claus, and by Christmas Eve, we had you so excited about him that you were simply dying to meet him when he stopped by that night.  … Oops.  We’d forgotten that a critical part of the Santa explanation is that you have to be in bed, sleeping, when he stops by on Christmas.  You were disappointed when we made you go to bed that night without getting to sit on Santa’s lap again, but it helped that you got to make cookies for him first.  I guess that’s one thing we’ve learned lately – we can make a lot of things up to you by plying you with sugar.  Maybe I should stock up on cookies for the day we bring home your brother.

One of the big lessons we’ve been learning lately about parenting you is that we have to be careful how we explain things.  We often tell you something thinking you’ll interpret our words exactly as we mean them, only to find that you’ve got a completely different idea in your head.  When we took you to Denver to go shopping several weeks ago, I told you that we had to drive for a very long time to get there.  I completely forgot that the last time I told you we had to drive a long way, we were headed for Texas.  So when we got to the mall and you said sadly, “I want to see Nanny,” I was caught completely off guard.  I had no idea you were expecting to see your great-grandmother, and all I was prepared to offer was the holiday crowds at a shopping mall.  Gram and Papa got a glimpse of this last week when Gram decided to make you a cape out of some shiny red fabric that you discovered.  A cape sounds like such a silly, fun little dress-up toy that no one saw the meltdown coming, because no one realized that you thought a cape would allow you to actually fly.  When Papa refused to allow you to jump down the stairs, you were very upset at his cruelty.

You’ve also gotten very good at explaining things to us – and very elaborate, I should add.  Lately you’ve been slipping into your storytelling mode more and more often, usually when we’re trying to get you to go to bed or something equally unappealing to you.  You’ll have spent a good 20 minutes telling us an involved tale about Dora the Explorer, ice cream and rabbits, and then when we try to tell you it’s time to wrap up this adventure and go to bed you’ll say, “Just a second, I’m talking,” and then continue as if we hadn’t said anything.  There will be arm gestures, sentences punctuated with a chuckle, little questions to involve the audience, etc.  It works extremely well as a stalling tactic, because it’s just so cute that we can’t bear to make you stop talking and go to bed.

Well, kiddo, I don’t know what else to say right now, so I guess I’ll call this letter finished.  I know I keep saying this, but I love you, I love you, I love you.  This letter really will be the last one I write to you as an only child, and I hope the next one isn’t filled with tales about how mad you are that we ruined your life with a sibling.  It’s going to be an adventure, and I’m so glad I get to share it with you.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

Your Daddy and I are having an expensive month.  First we (I) broke our house, then the hospital kindly sent us a bill for a childbirth that hasn’t taken place yet, and today the brakes on Daddy’s car started making an ungodly squealing noise.  I’m sort of afraid to check the mail tomorrow.  But each time something else happens, after I put down the bill or close the door behind the water-damage cleanup crew, I go back to playing with my daughter, who is somehow completely unfazed by our financial woes.  And watching you giggle and laugh and throw yourself off the top of your little slide in the living room, trusting me completely to catch you before you hit the floor, makes me forget about our troubles and just enjoy the moment.  Thank you for that, sweetie.

This past month, you discovered Dora The Explorer after Daddy realized it was available for instant streaming on Netflix.  While I will admit that Dora is infinitely more tolerable than Barney, I’m pretty sure all the repetition in that show is making me dumber.  The map song, which appears in every episode and which contains the lyrics “I’m a map, I’m a map, I’m a map, I’m a map, I’m a map!” has almost certainly destroyed more of my brain cells than all the bar-hopping I did in college.  You seem to like it, though, and you get actively involved in the episodes, doing the monkey dance and helping Dora choose the correct items from her backpack.  That’s pretty much the only reason I keep letting you watch it.  Well, that and the threat of having a sobbing toddler scream, “I want to watch DOOOORRRRAAAAA!” until my ears bleed.

We are rapidly approaching your last Christmas as an only child – assuming your baby brother doesn’t decide to make a really early appearance – and we can’t wait for you to see what Santa has in store for you.  Your dad and I went Christmas shopping for you immediately after touring the birth center where your brother will be born, and we must have still been high from the thought of bringing new life into the world or whatever, because we were insane enough to buy you a drum set.  A real, honest-to-God drum set.  With cymbals.  When we have a newborn on the way.  Clearly, we are geniuses.  At the time, we rationalized that we could set up your drums in the basement so you could play down there without disturbing the entire household.  But now I’m wondering whether the basement will be functional before Christmas, as we just found out today that there will be some tearing out of drywall and repainting, and I’m not sure how promptly that will happen.  Maybe the drums should be a birthday present instead.

Ugh.  I am sitting in my office right now and I can hear you crying from your bedroom, and I’m coming to realize that we’ve created a little monster in recent months.  I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but we somehow got into the habit of letting you sleep in our room.  A lot of the time, we can get you to go to bed in your own room, and then if you wake up in the middle of the night we just bring you to our bed rather than go through the trouble of forcing you to stay in your own.  But then we had a few nights in a row where we were all ridiculously exhausted and we just let you go to bed in our room from the get-go.  And that is how we screwed ourselves over.  I regularly hear comments from other moms about how you’re always so calm and sweet and you never throw temper tantrums, and it is for them that I would have liked to have recorded tonight’s reaction to my insisting that you go to bed in your own room.  It was as if I’d told you that you could never watch Dora again.  There was wailing, there was sobbing, and – my personal favorite – the ragdoll strategy of going completely limp in my arms.  I was so close to giving in.  Is this your way of ensuring that your baby brother will be your only sibling?  Don’t worry, kid, because I don’t plan on having any more.  NOW PLEASE SLEEP IN YOUR OWN ROOM, OK?

Despite the occasional setback though, you really do seem to cast yourself as a miniature adult whenever we’re hanging out with your friends.  After our exercise class, we often walk to the mall play area with other moms and their toddlers, and you’ve developed a tendency to insist that other kids hold your hand all the way to our destination.  You’re particularly insistent when those kids have been wandering off and been called back by their moms several times.  It’s like you think, “I’d better help keep my friend in line.”  I’m not sure whether you’re concerned that your friends will get in trouble, or if you’re siding with the moms in trying to restore order.  I suspect you’re siding with the moms.  This is probably not going to earn you any points in junior high, but I do appreciate the effort.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that you’re pretty much potty trained these days.  After a traumatic (for me) diaper change at Carl’s Jr. (seriously, what kind of fast-food place doesn’t have a changing table???) I declared that you were no longer allowed to wear diapers except for nap time and overnight, and you took to it like a champ.  We make exceptions at times, like say when our toilets aren’t working because Mommy doesn’t know what a broken pipe sounds like, but for the most part you understand that you’re a big girl now and big girls use the potty.  This occasionally leads to loud and inappropriate discussions in public places, like when you asked Gram and Papa whether they wear diapers or underwear during lunch at Country Buffet, but at least I don’t have to wipe shit off your butt when you’re standing barefoot on a public restroom floor anymore.  (Again, Carl’s Jr., get a damn changing table.)

It’s about time for me to wrap this up, since I’m having people over tomorrow night and our house looks like your toy box threw up in every single room.  The next letter may be one to both you and your brother, so while it’s just me and you talking, I want you to know that I’m so proud to have you as my first-born, and you’re going to make the best big sister.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Kaylee,

You would think that since I’m participating in NaBloPoMo, this would be the one month I’d manage to write your letter on time.  That would be a logical, yet incorrect assumption.  Somehow, despite fulfilling my obligation to write one post every day, I still didn’t write this particular post when I was supposed to.  But I’m only two days late, and in a couple more months I suspect we’ll all be lucky if I can get these posts up at all.

This month you’ve become completely obsessed with Barney.  I try to direct your attention to other TV shows, ones with characters who don’t make me want to smash things, but you’re just not interested.  Every morning – every single one – you wake up and announce that you want some chocolate milk and you want to watch Barney.  As the parent, I really ought to be able to tell you that it’s time to watch something else, but I really don’t have the strength to endure the wailing.  Plus it’s nice sometimes to let you watch TV quietly while I do the dishes.  Judge me all you want.

Another new development is one I thought wouldn’t be along for another year or so.  I would be happy with your advanced intelligence if it weren’t such an annoying new habit.  Whenever I tell you we can’t do something, or sometimes when I’m agreeing with you, or even when I’m just telling you some random bit of information like how I’m about to take out the trash, you ask, “Why?”  And that’d be ok if you’d accept my explanation.  But no matter what the answer, you ask again, and again, and then again and againandagainandagain until my brain starts to hurt and I’m finally forced to say, “BECAUSE I SAID SO, NOW STOP ASKING.”  (And then you want to know why I said so, and why you have to stop asking.)  Look what you’ve done to me, little girl, you’ve turned me into a parenting cliché.

We’ve been working lately to prepare for the arrival of your baby brother, who will be here before you know it. We painted his bedroom a few days ago, and we’ve been buying clothes and various supplies for him here and there. We try to involve you whenever possible — today you picked out a toy just for him — but I think he’s still a bit of an abstract concept to you. I can already tell jealousy will be a bit of an issue, though. After we painted, I brought the crib parts back into the baby’s room, and when I told you what it was, I added, “This is where Baby Brother will sleep.” You immediately started bawling and saying, “I want to sleep in the crib!” I thought I could defuse the situation by reminding you that you have a wonderful big-girl bed of your own, but that only made you cry harder. My darling girl, I know it’s going to be hard when you’re no longer the entire center of our universe, but we’ll try to make it easy on you. I’ll make you a deal: After we bring the baby home, we’ll do our best to keep treating you like a princess as long as you do your best not to hit your brother with toys or bite him.

I know it’s still only mid-December, but I am SO EXCITED about Christmas this year. It’s partly because you’re getting older and I know you’ll be more interested in your gifts than ever before. But I think it’s mostly that, as long as your brother doesn’t arrive early, this is your last Christmas as an only child. I can’t wait to spoil you rotten. Hopefully that will at least partly make up for the bomb we’ll drop on you a couple of weeks later.

(Ok, this is completely off the subject, but I’d like you to know that you really creeped me out just now. I’m lying on your bedroom floor, typing out this letter on my phone as I wait for you to fall asleep. You’d fallen almost completely silent except for a soft snore, so I thought you were out for the night and I would just finish up one more sentence before leaving your room. Then, all of a sudden, I realized you were sitting up in bed, looming over me, reaching for my face. It’s not like you have claws or anything, but you weren’t supposed to be there and it was all I could do not to yell and wake you all the way up.)

Anyway. There’s not much else to say, I guess, except that I love you very much. Even when you’re doing your psycho laugh, and even when you’re scaring the hell out of me by appearing next to me when you’re supposed to be asleep.

Love,

Mommy