A Painted House

Archive for June 2012

Dear Edison,

You’re nineteen months old!  This month can be summed up in one word:  QUEEN!  No, not THE Queen, though it  would be completely awesome to have a toddler obsessed with the British monarchy.  In more typical one-year-old fashion, you’re completely and utterly obsessed with the movie Cars, spending most of your free time locating and declaring the presence of QUEEN!  You carry around diecast Cars figurines, can identify all of the characters by name, and anytime the TV is turned on ask hopefully for, “Queen an’ Maaer?”   And much to your delight and your brother’s chagrin, he wears Cars underpants and thus starts and ends each day with you jabbing him repeatedly in the rear and yelling, “’DA QUEEN!”.

On the occasion that we pry you away from begging the television to suddenly materialize Queen (it’s like MAGIC!), your favorite place to be is outside to play.  I adore the back yard on this house because it’s large, fenced, and easy to monitor from the kitchen.  This means I can shove encourage you two yahoos out the back door and then make let you play while I fix dinner or fold laundry.  This peaceful arrangement worked out well until James figured out how to undo the lock on the gate and one afternoon I glanced out to an empty back yard.  Five endless minutes and one minor stroke later, I found you four houses down, trotting briskly away from home as fast as your curious little legs would carry you.  I don’t know that I’ve ever hugged you so tight, sweet boy.  And then Daddy carefully installed a second lock on each gate, putting the brakes on your plans for a solo trip to Hoboken.

Your favorite thing to do in the back yard, aside from trying to empty the sand box into your shoes, is to “help” me pick raspberries from our growing bushes.  If you see me headed toward the back half of the yard with bowl in hand, you drop everything and scamper my direction squealing for, “bewies!”.    There is little more in this world that you love more than fruit, Edison, and you’ve been known to graze for your own snacks rather than waiting for me to pull the ripe ones from the bushes.  You get your loves of raspberries from your Dad, who keeps asking if I could please make a pie?  I’d be happy to oblige once I accumulate enough fruit, except you keep sabotaging my stock by plopping yourself down next to the bowl and happily stuffing your cheeks with everything I pick.  It remains to be seen who will win the Battle of the Berries this summer.

Edison, you’ve embraced the fast pace of toddlerhood with ease and eagerness.  You’re curious and animated and all.over.the.place.  You’ve long given up just walking (that’s SO for babies) and now run through life on those little bow legs of yours.  You and James play chase around and around our main floor, blazing a thundering, shrieking path from room to room and when the blur that is the two of you flies past, I can hardly recognize the big kid you’ve become. It’s hard for me to comprehend that that little lump of baby I called my Bugaboo (Yes, I did.  Sorry.) is now big enough to throw a ball in the yard, hide his milk in the cupboard for me to find two days later, ask to swing, and disassemble a room in less than ten minutes.  I’m sure part of the reason you seem so much older than possible is because in following your older brother’s every move, you’ve picked up on concepts seemingly advanced for your age.  For example, while you’ve yet to correctly identify a letter of the alphabet, you know what a pirate is (”Piwaa!  Yo HO!”) and can pick Peter Pan out of a lineup.  Incidentally your favorite animal at the zoo is the crocodile, otherwise known around here as the Tick Tock Crock (“Tah Cwah!”).

Let’s make a deal, you and me.  When you fall down and run to me or wake up sad in the middle of the night and need a snuggle back to sleep, I won’t tell you to toughen up or be a big boy.  And for your part you hold on with all your might to that baby face and adorable almost-English vocabulary and the way you lay your head on my shoulder when you are tired, and promise not to grow up to fast. Ok?

And absolutely NO solo trips to Albuquerque.

Love, Mama


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