With a Capital S

We talk in various ways with Daniel about the baby brother soon to be joining our family. In yet another view on a preschooler's concept of "time" - every time I head to the doctor's office for an appointment, he asks if I'm coming home with the baby. I smile, and explain that it will be summer, and warm, and practically his birthday before he gets here. (If only it were so easy!) He will also randomly tell me about how he will help with the baby when he gets here. This includes things like changing his diaper, and pouring milk into his cup. Hmmm. Breastfeeding may take a little explaining... And when we were coasting through the kid's department of a store yesterday he picked an outfit off the rack and asked if it would be good for the baby. The clothes were a near-fit for Daniel, so I explained that his little brother would need to grow into something like that. It's all been very sweet.

Moments above alternate with the days that I have to hold onto my patience with both hands as my independent-minded four year old and I butt heads over every. Little. Thing. Clothes to wear for the day are not right, by virtue of the fact that Mommy picked them out. We can't leave the house while he struggles with his coat zipper. He appears to be living on tortillas and string cheese lately. And once, this past winter, he was determined to help me move a pile of snow out of our driveway. To the point that he moved my pile of snow back into the driveway so that he could move it out himself.

And we've been in a potty-training conundrum for quite some time. Daniel has peed on the potty like a champ for awhile now. Wears underwear to preschool, doesn't have accidents... but when it came to the inevitable poop on the potty, he requested a pullup and to go do it in his room. Nothing, not even outright bribery of every kind could dissuade him. He'd proclaim to one and all that he would get this or that prize if he pooped on the potty, but when it came to the moment there was so much fussing and crying over it all that I would give in and it would be a pullup in his room for the deed.

Grandma and Grandpa came to visit last week. There was some cajoling, and fussing, and one missed day of "going." The next day he agreed to sit on the potty. I could hear him chattering away to himself, flipping the pages of a book while he sat. And then. I could almost hear a catch in his little voice as he said: I did it! Daddy took him to Target, to pick out a grand potty prize. And while there's some work to be done regarding the logistics of such things as wiping, we've been going on the potty ever since.

I feel slightly silly, and maybe it's just pregnancy hormones, but I found myself tearing up at the jubilation in his voice at his accomplishment. Here's to my stubborn-sweet son, who does it all "My way!"

Rewards

There are days where I'm still looking for the instruction manual for this Mom Gig. I mean, as soon as you start to feel you have it figured out, it changes up on you. First it's the sleep deprivation, and the breast feeding and the endless marching line of diapering while you try and figure out the wants and needs of this little being who is so totally dependent on you for everything. No sooner do you settle into a routine when...

It's walking and solid foods and talking up a storm and potty training. My formerly dependent little being has become a decidedly independent boy who has found his voice. And his opinion. On everything from what to wear and when - (He's now in his Fall coat. In December. At this rate the Winter coat should be on his body by mid-February or so...) to what to eat, and firm opinions on the decided injustice of having to take a nap when there is so much to do.

And there are the days where Mama wants a do-over and I have to remind myself that my boy is no longer just that cute, cuddly little thing that I brought home from the hospital and that maybe he is just having a do-over day too.

Then the bed time routine rolls around. These days it involves pajamas and story time with Daddy. I really don't mind, as it gives them a chance for some "boys time." He comes to say goodnight, and I get open arms and a Mwah (kiss), and an I wuv you.

I love you too, my baby boy.

Dear Daniel

Three years ago I had hauled my pregnant self out to the couch, unable to sleep in my bed for the aching of all my joints. I had just begun to doze off to the last dregs of a 2am MASH episode, when I felt a strange Whump. Turns out you had just head-butted me. It would take 12 more hours, but you finally made your long-anticipated appearance - three years ago today.

We treated you a bit like a porcelain doll in those first days as I learned to breastfeed, and your Dada and I got used to the sleepless nights. It's hard to reconcile those days with the three year old who is constantly whacking me in the knees (if I'm lucky) with foam swords, driving race cars through the kitchen and flying Spiderman or the Hulk across the table.

Where did three years go? That question keeps jumping out at me as we've done things this summer, like the swimming lessons with your best bud Marisa. Birthday #3 is turning into a birthday month: a little mini-celebration last week with Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Andy in Wisconsin. Hanging out with Mama and Dada and your new tank and Star Wars soldiers today... and another party with Gram and the rest of the New England family (and Marisa) in a week or so when Auntie June is free from her singing gigs.

You've grown up so in just three short years. I certainly realized it this week when you walked into our bedroom one morning at 3:30am and turned on the light. Way to use your stepstool, but Dude - rude awakening. It's also been the best times of our lives. Happy Birthday little man!

Dear Daniel

When you were born, I never thought that I might be measuring you in the state of your hair. You arrived with a bunch of the stuff that was sort of dark and a little wavy, and it had your father and I scratching our heads and saying: Huh? Where did that come from?

We stumbled through those sleep-deprived first weeks and months, and I don't really remember you losing hair, but suddenly it seems there was a new crop. Early pictures show a grinning blondie with an initial strip of hair focused in the center, prompting at least one email from Grandpa saying: Who gave the kid a mohawk? The mohawk filled in and kept going, and we all marveled at your cherub curls. I occasionally got a scissors to your bangs, to make sure you could see, but we left your lion's mane to bounce behind you as you ran on your many new adventures.

I never thought that it would be at 2.5 years old you would be getting your first official hair cut. You were a trooper, only really crying when the lady got out her spray bottle full of water to wet down your hair. It was time. The weather is getting hotter, and I know that you certainly won't miss brushing the hair out of your eyes or pulling it away from your mouth when you're trying to eat (or my trying to comb a knot out of the back of your head). We think fondly of your long locks... but seeing our new big boy come padding into our room (yes, even at 6am) makes us smile.

Love,

Mama