A Painted House

Dear Edison

You are twenty-two months old!  Confession: this letter is being written way later than it should.  And to be completely honest, I’m having a hard time remembering what even happened this month so it might be shorter that it should be as well.  At least the reason for my foggy memory is a good one; Edison, you are going to be a big brother!  I know, that probably doesn’t sound all that exciting to you.  Sharing your toys, your house, and your Mama with another small person isn’t usually cause for celebration in any toddler brain.  But instead let’s consider this a promotion where you get to join the ranks of James in Big Brother Land!  And since anything James does is both fascinating and worthy of trying to replicate, right down to diving head-first off of the bed and potentially breaking your neck, that should make your new status a bit more palatable.  If all else fails, remember it was you who once upended his entire life in the same way so really, turnabout is fair play.

So these past few weeks have been one big lump of nausea and exhaustion for me and relying heavily on you and James to amuse yourselves while I tried to hold it together on the couch.  This plan hasn’t gone particularly well at times, resulting in one of you dumping copious amount of sand over the head of the other, running nearly naked through the back yard, and self-service snacking out of the pantry.  But we all made it through the month relatively unscathed, despite the occasional breakfast made up of Ritz crackers, marshmallows, and raisins.  You’re welcome.

In related news, you’ve discovered both the deliciousness and location in this house, of fruit snacks.  You may wonder why this little detail is in any way significant enough to warrant a mention in your monthly letter, but that is only because you do not have to live with your little fruit snack-crazed self.  Would it be insanely tyrannical for me to ban the use of the phrase fruit snacks within the confines of our house?  Probably, yes.  And also, completely unenforceable, but that won’t stop me from trying.  Because you’ve camped yourself out in front of the pantry and use at least sixty percent of your daily words to request, in persuasive, pitiful, and eventually insistent tones, that you be given yet another package of fruit snacks.  I won’t be surprised if your mail starts arriving addressed to Edison Casper, The Far Side of the Pantry in Front of the Snack Bin, Granger, IN.  And let’s just say that my stubborn, unfair, completely irrational denial to your request to consume seventeen packets of gummy sugar per day is not particularly well received.  At all.  In which case the mail simply goes to Edison Casper, Writhing on the Floor in Front of the Far Side of the Pantry in Front of the Snack Bin, Granger, IN.

One last thing that absolutely must be documented, lest my brain power go the way of my size two figure after three pregnancies, is the utter and total failure that was trying to put you in footie pajamas.  Well, technically getting you IN them wasn’t the problem.  You were perfectly happy to be dressed in footies for the first time since the weather turned colder and even seemed to enjoy the novelty of having your socks be attached to your pants.  And all went well until 3 a.m. when I woke to your voice on the monitor, pitifully calling for something that sounded like, “Beh-yeee.  Beh-yeeeeeee!”  And my fuzzy brain quickly realized that you, my kid who adorably and oddly pinches his belly button as his favorite self-soothing technique,  were distraught at having your built-in sleep button rendered inaccessible by zippers and flannel.  So there we were, stripping you down in the middle of the night and switching to two-piece jammies, after which you tucked both hands under your shirt and fell contentedly, deeply asleep.

Oh, how I love you, my little fruit snack jonesing, belly button pinching weirdo.

Love, Mama