Letter from Mama, v20

You are 20 months old today, lil' dude! You're in your '20s!

This shouldn't surprise you, but I have your 2nd birthday party planned, and I've stashed away little goodies here and there for the treat bags for your pals. Because, HELLO, you'll be 2 in just four months. Time doesn't have to slow down though, or hurry up. Time can stay where it is, minute by minute, because I'm here enjoying you as you grow up right before my eyes. I revel in each and every milestone you hit, I laugh when you're funny, I whisper when you're asleep, and I treasure every piece of you. You have this ability of being one step ahead of me. For months, I positioned your little tush on your pink princess throne of a toilet. I filled up a potty-only basket of toys, books, and games. I rationed out mini-M&M's. I read. Then, last weekend, you had to go ... so I positioned your little tush on the normal toilet and there you went, no big deal. All week long, in fact, you've done that. You simply are one step ahead of me. I love it! Forget the published journals, textbooks, and famous, expert authors. Everything I've needed to learn about parenting, I've learned from you.

This week, Daddy bought some sweet corn from the same guy he buys from every summer. This year, you got your very own cob, cooled plenty, buttered minimally. You ate the rest of your meal around your corn, leaving it alone on your plate. You touched it with a fingertip. You peered down at it, eye-level. You blew on it, for good measure. Then, you cried. No, off! So, I stripped the cob of its kernels and gave you a spoon and you cheered right up. You don't need fancy things, or new stuff. You remind me of your great-grandpa R. He always jokingly said, if the cow ain't broke, don't fix it. Now, that cliche doesn't make sense and he knew that, but he said it anyways.

You're slowly losing your baby words. All-d has been replaced with all done. You want to pick your sippy cup out yourself. You insist on climbing into your car seat unassisted. In the mornings, you march right up to the Daycare Lady's door, and whip open the door, and burst in declaring your arrival. It's almost like you're too embarrassed for your littles to see you being carried in by your mom! I mean, you're 20 months old! Way too old for such preciousness. But, I still make a production out of smacking you on the cheeks with big, noisy kisses, and brushing your bangs out of your face as I tell you to be a good girl. I can do that because I'm your mother, just sayin'!

And, because? Mama loves.