All the flip-flops in all the world

Dear Spot,

If you’re reading this when you’re thirteen and looking for a legitimate reason to hate your mother (as if you needed one), you might bring up the fact that I never mentioned that it was your birthday last month, three days after Susan’s. It’s not that I forgot that you turned two, or that we didn’t mark the occasion with the appropriate fanfare, but, well . . . I guess I’m still sore that my calculations were so off two years and ten months ago when I thought that you would be born in November.

Tonight you climbed out of your crib for the first time. Dad pushed you back in as you flung your leg over the railing a few times so you wouldn’t fall, but later, when Sally and Susan were both asleep, and the grown-ups were exploring the wonders of cable tv, you came down the stairs by yourself. You’d taken off your pajamas, again, and you looked so cute, and you’re my third child and still my baby, so I set my laptop aside and snuggled you for a few minutes. Your skin warmed up quickly as I tickled your legs and gobbled your neck.

I asked you “Where’s Spot’s bed?” and pretended to put you down in the washing machine, the kitchen sink, the coat closet, and outside in the cold. You kept saying “no,” until I set you down in a brown plastic bin we have in the corner for toys. You could see the tv from there, and you said that was Spot’s bed, but Mom wasn’t really asking where your bed is. She knows your crib is upstairs in the room you share with Sally.

When I came down from settling you, again, Dad said that I’m so good at getting you kids to want to do what I want you to do. And it’s true, I can cajole you out of a bad mood or make you think that it was your idea to go to sleep or eat your dinner or put your pretty princess boots on. But a lot of the time I can’t muster the energy or time to make you want to do things. Sometimes I just want you kids to put your coats in the closet or get into your car seats without me having to make a game of it. Because sometimes I want to think about other things than how to turn every minute of the day into a “Let’s Tidy up the Nursery or Well-begun is half-done” Mary Poppins game.

Daddy says I need to hide all of the flipflops because next time you fall down the stairs while wearing mine or your older sisters’ you’re going to break your neck. I told him the carpet at the foot of the stairs is pretty thick, especially now that we have an extra rug there, but he worries about things like that, and whether I’ve turned off the stove and the iron and locked the front door. Even though I’ve ironed once in the ten and a half years that we’ve been married, you know that it would be my fault if the house ever burnt down because the iron got left plugged in.

When the weather turned cold a few weeks ago, you refused to wear a jacket or sweater, even when I did a Russian folk dance and pretended to put my head in the sleeves. Then you saw Sally and Susan wearing their new pink snow boots one morning when there was .2 millimeters of snow on the grass, and suddenly you wanted to wear your warmest coat and your boots and a fleece hat. I didn’t tell you that it wasn’t really cold enough for the stay-puff look yet; I figured it was good practice and that I shouldn’t dampen your enthusiasm. I think we’ll look for a copy of the Elmo’s Potty Time DVD this weekend for that very reason.

When you start pulling off your diaper and trying to wear your oldest sister’s panties, and excitedly showing people at church the cute bloomers that match your dress and saying “panties! panties!” loud enough to be heard over the speaker, I think it might be a sign that you’re interested in being a big girl.

Happy Birthday!

Love,

Mommy Jane