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21 months and counting March 17, 2010

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Being a mama, Letters to Alice.

Dear Alice,

We’ve reached the single-digit weekly countdown to the baby, a thought that’s keeping me up late geeking out over baby names and wondering how people actually have more than one child (seriously, how does one go to Target with a toddler who won’t sit in a cart and a baby? Seriously? People must do this, but HOW). For you, this just means you’re that much closer to meeting the one you now blame for all your meltdowns.

Not unlike myself.

“No Alice,” we’ll say, and you’ll fall to your knees and whine and cry. But after you’re over it, you’ll pretty much dust off your knees and then proclaim “Baby cry. Ay-yice cry? Nooooo. Baby cry.” Ahh, a 21-month-old who understands laying the blame on someone else. Someone who, at the moment is pretty dang content to just float around all day. Nice one, kid, but I might be on to you.

The good news is, clearly you’re finally forming little sentences. I’ll check that item off my to-worry-about list.

Sunday afternoon, we cracked the lid off your sandbox on the deck because Wisconsin gave us a break for a second (don’t worry, it’ll be back in time for this weekend, when I hear snow’s expected because MOTHER NATURE HATES YOUR MOTHER). You’d completely forgotten it even existed so even though you don’t have real sandbox toys and it was more of a swirl-the-sand-around-with-a-kitchen-spoon deal, your toddlerhood fun-o-meter soared like two whole points. “Sambock! Outsi!” You were all about that sandbox outside, and you cried when we had to pry you out of it to come inside to eat.

Last weekend we went to Indiana to see Gramma and Grampa, who you thought only existed on Skype, and you were so independent and grown-up throughout the whole trip that I couldn’t help but feel like maybe your dad and I don’t suck at parenting, and you won’t turn out to be a psychopath. You ate pizza with a fork and politely asked for a napkin to wipe your chin (psychopaths don’t use napkins, I’m sure of it). You walked around the stores when we went shopping, holding our hands and coming out from underneath clothes racks when asked (psychopaths don’t do that, either). You read book after book in the car. It was so unlike the horrendous trip through Indiana we made in January that I knew that bribery check for $20 I wired to Jesus must’ve made it.

Nothing escapes you now. Not Mama’s or Daddy’s attempt at eating slyly in the front seat of the car without sharing with you. Not my use of the word “cankles” (because that needs repeating over and over, loudly). Not that nose that needs picking. Not the cover of Sports Illustrated with hockey on the cover — “Hockey! Hockey!” you’ll shriek and point, though you’ve watched exactly one hockey game in all your life. Observant, you are. Lint on the stairs. Noises outside, like birds or our idiot neighbor with the car on steroids. You’re making us practice patience: I realize that. I never noticed how much I filter out until you call me out on my oblivion. There’s a sappy lesson in there somewhere …





1. Lori - March 17, 2010

LOL, the kids are almost 3 and 1, and I still don’t take them anywhere by myself unless it is absolutely necessary. And it is SOOO good to hear that other parents try to sneak snacks in the front seat without the backseaters seeing!!! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! =)

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