Dear Indigo,
We got into a routine, you and I (and Daddy too, though he
less willingly) over the past month or so. Every morning around 6am—though
sometimes 3am, if we’re honest—you would pad into our room, give a plaintive,
“Mommy…”, and I’d lift you into our bed, put you between us, and fall back asleep
as you snuggled in. And kicked Daddy in the face. I often wouldn’t even recall
you coming in; I’d just wake up with you beside me. Sometimes I’d try to cut
you off if I heard you getting up, try to bring you back to bed, to no
avail. You took my hand one time, said
“Come on, Mommy,” and led me to my bed, snuggling in even closer than normal. It
was adorable. When we informed you that it was time to move to your big boy
room upstairs, you bawled like the three-year-old you are soon to be. “Can I
still come in your room in the morning?” I reassured you that yes, just call
for me and I will get you. But it hasn’t happened yet. You seem quite content
in your new room. Which breaks my heart just a little bit.
Yet when I see you building giant towers, doing puzzles, or
when you tell me a fantastical story about a dinosaur and a monster, I can’t
help but be happy to see you growing up, learning, using your imagination,
becoming more YOU with each day. You are still my quiet, snuggly boy with a
biting temper (literally, you randomly bite; please stop). You still seem to
feel things deeply, like when you began crying about preschool and how
different and loud it was, how it scared you. Such feelings I hadn’t really
processed that you had yet. Such big feelings for such a little boy.
I often wonder what is going through your head as you stare
out the window at dinner, watching the birds and the trees. Or at night, when
you lie in bed, eyes open, staring into nothing, thinking, thinking, thinking,
taking forever to fall asleep. What huge thoughts so occupy your little world?
From the beginning, you have been my worrier, concerned about the world around
you, even as your sister stared it down and said, “Bring it!” I have photos of
you, weeks old, with huge, worrying eyes. You are more like me than you yet
know. I am a worrier. I, too, stare into the night thinking, thinking,
thinking. I like seeing that we are alike, but I wish it were in other ways.
Try to live life a bit more freely, a bit less worried. You are surrounded by
people who love you and will protect you, for as long as possible, so don’t
fret . . . yet.
But you also feel joy deeply, with your big, whole-body,
infectious laughter. I love that laugh more than almost anything in the world.
Your eyes light up and your entire face along with it. I hope to find more ways
to make you laugh instead of worry.
You love playing pirates and are pretty good with a
lightsaber. Your obsession is Paw Patrol now, not Elmo or even Mickey Mouse.
You can sing the theme song and say all the catch phrases. You take my phone
and call it your Pup Pad and summon the Paw Patrol “to the lookout!” I love it.
This week you guys discovered Wall-E. You get so anxious for him, jumping up and down and yelling at him to run, to look out, to go faster. You run in and out of the room, barely able to take the suspense, but you love every minute of it. One of these days I'll catch it on video, before it all becomes old hat. Seeing your excitement makes me so happy.
You love running around outside, especially if it’s away from me as you look
back with that devilish grin you got from
your father. You enjoy reading books (repeatedly) and going to the
library. You are doing great at preschool, learning to identify your letters
and numbers, and to write them too! You love pasta with sauce, bananas, pears,
and grapes. We’re still working on the veggies. You are doing pretty great with
potty training, and I’m so excited to get you out of diapers once and for all.
You still won’t pedal your tricycle, because it’s just easier to push along
with your feet, but I know one day you’ll wake up and simply get it. You love
playing in the sand at the playground, less so going down the slide. I’m
wondering if you have a fear of heights. You love your sister, too, and it’s
the best thing ever when I see you working together on something instead of
fighting over it. You are good at sharing, once reminded. You like to help me
around the house, and I let you, even though it’s really no help at all.
In short, you are a three year old. My little three year old
baby boy. Happy Birthday.
Love,
Mama
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