You Just Tickle My Heart

Dear Sweet Sweet Son,

You are eating a blueberry muffin . . . and its just about as big as you are. I watch you put it to your perfectly shaped lips and take such mannerly little bites. You look happy and I say to you, "Mmmmm!"

And you say to me, mouth full as it can be . . .

"it's dewishious!"

You just are like a sweet, innocent little angel sitting here in my presence.

I love you.

[and I just enjoy you in my life so much]

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?

Dear Son,

"Big Boy Bed" is not as much fun as I had hoped it would be. You seem to think its some sort of punishment, and tonight as I was asking you for the seventy-eleventh time to PLEASE lie back down . . .
you looked at me with those lady killers of yours and said,
"sowwy mommy . . . hug?"


Its now 1am.

I'm going to sleep.


Iloveyou

Mind Your Manners

Dear Son,

We feed your piggy bank most nights. Tonight after you deposited your pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters - you proclaimed, "Say kank kew pig!"

[I can not make this stuff up.]


I love you, now and evermore.

A Week of Celebration . . .

Dear Son,

As I type this letter . . . a miraculous wonder is taking place just down the hall from me and to the left. (I am actually tearing up at the thought.)

You are.

Sleeping.

In. Your. Bed.

In. Your. Room.


You've slept with me since the day you were born. And I was content with it that way - happy even. It was natural and it was beautiful. But today something came over me. I felt like I wanted to just see if you'd go to bed in your own room.

When the time came, I went in your room like it was the normal routine. I told you it was time to "go night-night in your big boy bed." You climbed right in and wiggled and giggled. We read two stories before I turned out the lights. There was a period of you getting up to gather stuffed animals (all within your room)to put in there with you, (something you've never done while sleeping with me.) You also needed the company of a picture of your gram to put in there as well.

But you never seemed upset or frightened about it.

I sat in the rocker in the dark room waiting for signs that you were finally in a dream land. You crept out of bed once more and climbed into my lap. I told you that I love you . . . and that when you fell asleep I would be putting you back in your big boy bed, and I would go to my big girl bed.

Moments later when you were asleep in my arms . . .

thats just what I did.


Two years went by so fast. If asked before you were born if my child would sleep with me for two years - I'd have thought "no way." But little one, it was all joy, and all went by too fast.

I love you and am so very proud of you.

Woooo-Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dear Son,

"You went poop in the potty!"

[do the cabbage patch, do the cabbage patch!! Do the sprinkler, do the sprinkler!! Do the running man, do the running man!! Do the snake, do the snake!!]


I LOVE YOU!




(And to those of you who:

A) Think this is an inappropriate letter topic
B) Cannot relate to my excitement
C) Fail to see the awesomeness of my dancing thus expressed in word form

I say to you - "nanna nanna boo-boo.")

I'm Not Crazy

Dear Son,

It is 11am. You have yet to get out of bed. Usually, if you sleep until 9, I say that you've slept late. Thats not entirely the point of this post, however. The point, darling, is to assure myself that I'm not losing my mind.

No less than 5 times in the last two hours I have crept into the room where you are sleeping to . . . to make sure . . . . to make sure you are still breathing.

I should be enjoying the silence. I have a very demanding exam to study for, and I have been - but there continues to be a knawing at my insides - way in the bottom of my stomach. I'm trying to write about electromagnetic fields and the index of refraction within a vacuum, but this little voice inside keeps whispering, "what if he's not ok? What if he somehow wrapped his blanket six times around his head, thus restricting his airways, and that somehow doesn't wake him and alert him to cry out?"

The rational voice in my head, of course answers, "He'd cry out."

The paranoid voice then fires, "What if he can't cry out?"

"He would be able to cry. Or just reach up and pull whatever is blocking his ability to breathe out of the way," says reason.

"One can never be to sure," scoffs paranoia. "What if it isn't suffocation keeping him? What if . . . . if he's ran a high fever of sort, and slipped into some sort of coma or worse?"

Oh paranoia, you are an evil, evil conversationalists. I am sure that . . .

that....


excuse me, I've gotta go take another peek in at you . . . .

[just to be on the safe side.]