Dear Rowan,

WOW!  You are really good at this being two years old stuff!  You go so far above and beyond to find the most ridiculous, soul crushing, bone grinding, situation to tantrum over.  Let’s take this afternoon for instance.   I had given you a plate with baby carrots on it, and a small cup, filled half way with dip.  You had placed the cup on your plate, and started walking carefully towards Great’s room.  About half way there you realized that the time you have with your mother is truly priceless, and you couldn’t bear to be apart from me for a single second longer.  As soon at the realization made its way through your brain and shot out of your fingers, your plate was on the floor, the dressing  splattered across the hardwood floor.  If only you could have managed to do that on a canvas, we could have hung it in a gallery, and claimed it was a Jackson Pollock original.  We could have been millionaires.  You really should have thought that through better.

You came bounding towards me, already poised to turn on the meltdown switch.  In the very millisecond in took for the tip of the first carrot hit the floor, you let forth a wail, that could have darkened the sky over the entire town  for months.  You were inconsolable for ten full minutes.  You didn’t want  Mommy.  You didn’t want more carrots or more dip.  You didn’t want me to help you back into Great’s room.  It took me an embarrassing mount of time to realize that all you really wanted to do was cry.  Just cry.  You just needed a place: an emotional place, and a physical place.  So I gently set you on the floor, surrounded you with pillows, and left you there.  You stopped screaming for half a minute, looked at me, and wordlessly I told you to go ahead and let it all out.  And you did.  You kicked and screamed, and threw pillows, and yelled.  I calmly told you to keep going, and get all your frustrations out.  About five minutes later, the whole debacle turned into a fit of giggles and belly laughs.  It drew to a perfect close with you and I curled up on top of a pile of  the pillows, your head on my shoulder, my hand resting on your sweaty head.  “Feel better, Sweet Potato?  “Hub Mom.”  “Yeah, I hub you too kiddo.”

For as many crazy wild-child  moments there are, there are always one or two spectacular moments to not only neutralize the previous situation, but to cancel it out all together.  You came to me with the laundry basket on wheels, and parked in at my feet.  You stood to the right of the basket, leaning into it casually, one arm swinging freely inside the plastic rectangle.  You looked at me, without saying anything other than, “basket!”  Yes Rowan, it’s a basket. “Please Momma.  Ride?”  I could not say no to those eyes and that lopsided grin…I heaved your 23 pound self into the basket, and away we went.  Soaring through the kitchen at .3 mph, your giggles filling every space, we slid around the corner hoping to collide with the couch.  Alas, it a door frame.  All is well though, as I throw my body into the space between the door and the basket, your bobble head impression came in very handy here, and your humongous head hit my shoulder first, ricocheted off the edge of the basket, and came to rest on  my chest.  “You okay?” I asked  “FUUUUN MOMMA!”  AGAIN!  DID IT!”

I suggested to you that we read your favorite book instead.  Delighted, you brought me, “Olivia” and we sat side by side on the couch.  You can recite that book word for word, but you still insist I read it to you.  About 3/4 of the way into the riveting story about a little girl who wears her mother out, you halt the story, and skip to your favorite part.  It’s the part where Olivia copies her favorite painting on the wall of her bedroom.  You always say, “No no no, Olivia!” at this part, and giggle like mad because she gets a time out.  I find this ironic, because if I even threaten you with a time out, you start to cry.  Anyway, you had me read it to you about four times, before I  insisted you stop stalling, and go to bed.

Exhausted from your afternoon of lung exercises, you were  refreshingly compliant about going to bed.  It wasn’t long before we were squeezed comfortably in your toddler bed together, ready to say your nightly prayers.  You talked to God about your day, thanking Him for you trains, your Nana and Bapa, and taggies.  I don’t have to walk you through this anymore, you can manage on your own now, thank you very much.

It was a good day, Rowan, and I love your emotional self.  Thank you for letting me go through these years with you, it is truly an honor.

Love, Mama.

One thought on “Dear Rowan,

  1. hoo boy, this made me all are a great writer, and good for you for letting your boy be his two year old self. hey, sometimes we all need a good cry.

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