Letter to Anna: Month twenty-nine

Dear Anna,

Every month I wonder if I should continue to write your monthly letters, but then I look at the running list of thoughts and stories I jot down and know that there’s just too much I want to remember about this precious time in our lives.  I’m pretty sure that having kids kills brain cells and given that my memory is on par with that of a goldfish lately, I don’t want to risk missing a moment.  Each day you seem to learn something new, accurately articulate a new phrase, or surprise us with a new trick.  I look back at pictures of you from just seven months ago when Charlotte was born and it’s night and day.  We thought you were SO big, comparatively, when we brought your sister home, but looking back I’m realizing you were still a baby yourself.

While my memory is waning, yours is like a steel trap and we’re starting to realize just how much you retain.  Just this week we received holiday stickers from a charity in the mail and upon inspection you immediately asked for one with “Ho Ho,” aka your name for Santa Clause.  Who hasn't been mentioned since last Christmas when you were barely a year and a half old.  With your expanded memory and thought process have come some night terrors or nightmares.  You went through a week long period this month where you’d wake up at leave once during the night crying, but couldn't explain to us what had happened.  You were physically fine, but we could tell you were mentally shaken.  Each time we’d rock you and sometimes would let you come into bed with us for a little bit; although good in theory, that arrangement never allowed any of us any additional sleep.  Just like most phases, it was over fairly quickly, but it was heartbreaking to see you scared or in shock.  It was a big reminder to me that there are SO many things I want to protect you from, but I can’t.  All I can provide is comfort, love, hugs and the assurance that I’m always there if you need me.

You’re sharp as a tack and not afraid to show off your knowledge and that memory bank.  Your Gigi was watching you while your Dad and I were out and about last weekend and when she asked you to look at the camera on her phone for a picture, she reported that you quickly, and matter-of-factly, responded “that’s a phone.”  If you knew how to roll your eyes, I’m sure that would have happened next.  You thrive on consistency and we are careful to be mindful of how we explain things or situations to avoid confusion.  The other night you were reading a book with your Dad and he pointed out a dog on one of the pages.  You definitely didn’t agree and made him back track to the page. After several minutes of discussion, you finally agreed it was a dog, but you certainly weren’t afraid to prove your point first.  Just last night I was schooled on plurals as I pointed to a picture of ducks and referred to it as a singular duck.  A heavy sigh, a “no Mommy” and a look of pity later, you explained that they were duckSSSS. 

You’re still a pretty good eater, but have developed a very slow and deliberate process of finishing a meal.  Although your breakfast is ready when you wake up in the morning, it’s usually not until we’re storing what’s left in a baggie for school that you decide you want to eat much of what was on your plate.  Dinner’s getting to be the same way with us often times leaving your plate out and letting you go back for snacks until it’s time to go upstairs for bath or bedtime.  There were a couple of evenings where you decided you were a dog after dinner and we may have used that as a way to feed you the rest of your meal.  “Here doggy doggy, here’s a delicious bite of food.”  I’m not particularly proud of those moments, but it ensured you ate a healthy meal before bed while you thought it was a fun game.  Win-win. And, we mistakenly introduced to fruit snacks this past month.  By we, I mean your father.  And by mistakenly, I mean, he had no idea the can of worms he was opening.  They are now your go-to snack when we get home from school, right alongside a cup of milk AND juice.  You ask for water too, but it’s been time tested that you’ll only drink two of the three, so we make you choose.  Double fisting at a young age, I like your initiative. 

Now that Charlotte is sitting up and rolling all over the place you’re starting to play in tandem.  The first time this happened you weren’t a fan of her mouthing all of your farm animals and gave her several warnings about not “eating my toys.”  A few weeks later we were all playing in the living room after dinner one evening and Charlotte was rolling around the room as usual, and was getting a little too close for comfort to your playset.  You gave her a solid warning about rolling onto your toys and then you swiftly packed up your belongings, said “otay otay, that’s enough Charlotte, I’m going over here to play” and moved yourself into the dining room. 

You may be learning how to share and play with Charlotte, but you’re still her biggest fan and protector.  You look out for her as though she’s your own baby, always by her side, ready to help calm her with a soft touch or sweet words and nothing is more precious than watching you give her a kiss and hug goodnight.  You’re just as gentle and sweet with your baby dolls; kissing their boo boos, rocking them to sleep, taking them on walks in the stroller and instructing us to “shhhh” when they are sleeping.  You're equally as concerned about your Dad and me, asking if we’re OK after a coughing spell, give me a big hug when I’m upset, and knowing when we need a cuddle and snuggling right in.  Maya Angelou is quoted as saying “when our children find it in their hearts to care for somebody else, you will have succeeded.”  I may be exhausted at the end of most days, you may not have eaten all of your dinner or have had enough “learning with play” time before bed, but when I see that caring nature shining through, I know I’ve done something right. 

Love, 

Mom