Dear Rowan,

I think it’s great that you want to eat vegetables all the time.  It’s a little strange that you beeline for the freezer in the morning, and then whine until I pour some frozen peas in a bowl for you, but then again, you’re a toddler.  You do some odd things from time to time.  Like lick Bapa’s chair.  And hoard batteries.  And talk to the knots in the wooden furniture.  But I digress.

Last night we were all sitting around and having root beer floats, and I offered to make you a small one.  You aren’t allowed to have soda, so I thought this would be a nice treat for you.  You dragged your chair over to the counter to watch me prepare the dessert.  After plopping a scoop of vanilla ice cream into your space ship cup, I saw the oh-so-familiar look of a tantrum coming on.  Your body went limp, your face scrunched up, and you let out your first wail of utter distress.  I calmly asked what you needed, but you were screeching too loud to hear.  Or care.  I kneeled down, took your hands in mine, and looked you in the eye.  “Rowan, when you are ready to tell me how I can help you, come find me.”  Then I left you to wallow in your misery of being a neglected and unloved child.  

A few minutes later you appeared, still wracked with sobs, your face blotchy and tear-streaked.  Interestingly enough, I had zero sympathy for you.  Wordlessly you took my hand and led me to the refrigerator.  I opened the door and lifted you up to stand in main compartment.   One by one you pointed out what you wanted, and a few minutes later the counter was littered with various vegetables and dips.  Together we cut up some carrots, a cucumber, some broccoli, and of, all things, a radish.  I got three small dishes and you squeezed some dressing into each one.  We took our medley and retreated to your pop-up tent on the back porch.  You happily ate every single bite, while jabbering away about the fly desperately trying to simultaneously escape the tent, and sample your ranch dressing.

“Rowan, you’re an odd duck.”

“Quack! Num, num, num.  BUG!”

“I rest my case.”

I love you just the same, Kiddo.

Love, Mom

3 thoughts on “Dear Rowan,

  1. You gave him a *gasp* ROOTBEER FLOAT instead of vegetables?!?!? I… I just don’t know what to say. Sometimes I don’t think I really know you, Tiffany.

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