Reality

Dear Son,

It's time for the truth Son. You should first know that I love you dearly . . . and second know that there is a fair chance that someone, somewhere will read this and feel it is both their moral and civic duty to report your dear mother to the Department of Social Service and Child Welfare . . . but I've decided its a chance I'm willing to take. (You gotta respect your mom for that)

Whew.

Heres the thing tiny one. Long before you were "even a twinkle in your mom's eye" (as your gram likes to say,) I was quick to say what I wouldn't let a child of mine do. These delusions multiplied once I was actually carrying you in my tummy. Oh, there were pledges of what time you'd go to bed at night, and promises of only serving you fresh vegetables and never dreaming of letting you eat carrots from a can (WHAT? with fresh ones so readily available . . . they lose all their nutrients when you put them in the can.) Ah the bliss that is ignorance Son . . . it was a wonderful world I lived in (read: had created in my mind.) And then there was the issue of cleanliness and germs. . . . (he'll never go out of doors without shoes on and I will wash every toy of his in the hottest of water and antibacterial soap after he's had a play date . . . )

*sigh*

Having said all that - I now would like to go on record as saying that at this very moment you are dragging around the mop . . . the damp, stinky, used to clean our dirty floors on a regular basis, (as recent as last evening) mop. And from time to time you will sit on the floor beside it and run your fingers through the mop strings . . . the dirty, stinking, damp mop strings. (gag)

And yes, I tried to take it away from you. Multiple times.

And yes, you fell out in the middle of the floor as though you'd received the harshest punishment
known to man.

And yes, I promptly gave it back to you.

I know I know . . . horror of horrors . . . I am a terrible parent. Terrible. Neglectful. But the thing is, I've learned to pick my battles. There are dishes to wash and lunches to make and laundry to fold . . . there is a bathroom to clean and toys to pick up (for the seventh time this morning) and boo-boos to kiss. I guess in the scheme of things . . . the mop just isn't something I'm willing to fight over today.


p.s.

I love you


EDIT: (30 minutes later)
Well, I did end up fighting over it, as you decided it would be a good idea to mop the couch. I mean, you can get it all over you all you want . .. but the COUCH?
I'm flexible Son, but I'm not just soft.

;)

The Wonder that is You

Dear Son,

What I love:

Sitting with my back against the wall in the bed where you sleep peacefully, soundly - just inches away ....
It's well after midnight now.
I turn on some music, ever - ever so softly . . . and within seconds, your little head has popped up, and you are . . .

DANCING!!

Let there never be a doubt that you, little one . . . bring joy to my soul.

First Visit to Pool

Dear Son,

Your first time in . . . and you loved it. Your cousins were there to lend a hand - but you were like an old pro.

In The Future . . . .

Note to Self (that would be me - The Mom)

In theory, Strawberry Jam on seven grain bread sounds like a good idea for lunch. (Nutritious, filling, etc.) You like strawberries, you like bread . . . no brainer right?

Wrong.

Strawberry Jam for lunch equals sticky . . . icky . . . oozy . . . everywhere. (And you were in your high chair.)

That is all.