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y darling Addison Weeks,
y two and a half year old,
y pre-schooler,

I thought that I wouldn’t write you a letter like this until your third birthday. But I’ve been reflecting on the past six months since I wrote this, and it is clear that I need to record all of the amazing developments and milestones you’ve hit in just a half year’s time.

You’re an entirely different kid than the one I wrote to back in May. You are a potty-trained, preschool-bound Big Sister. Those are all fairly epic events for a person of only 30 months of life. Brava, you!

Most notably, you are a completely verbal and communicative little person. You know how to express feelings. And opinions. And you’re even learning the art of lying to try to get your way. Like, yesterday, when you told me that you took off your tights and put them in your laundry hamper because there was pee on them. Even though the tights were bone dry and we all know that it’s just because you much prefer life in bare feet. Also, without pants.

I’m to blame for that preference. Le sigh.

You are my best friend and constant companion. You keep me company during the hourly nurse sessions with your sister. We go on walks and talk about the day. We ride in the car discussing what we should eat for dinner. I now understand my isolation and loneliness with your infancy much clearer, as I see the difference it makes to have another person by my side as I manage the day-to-day demands of a baby. Thank you for being such an enthusiastic and adorable bestie.

Although, I recognize that adjusting to life with baby sister hasn’t always been easy on our relationship. While you are bursting with energy and curiosity, you’ve been forced into a time in our household that often demands quiet, and patience, and stillness. That’s like telling Ursa not to love her tennis ball. It ain’t gonna happen.

And this is why you’ll be starting preschool after Thanksgiving. Just three times a week to give you some time with kids your age, in a space that is built to allow you to explore and play and take full advantage of your creative and curious mind and energetic spirit. This will be better for both of us, as our time together can be less filled with No’s and Wait’s and Hold on’s. We’ve also started going to gymnastics classes twice a week, and boy do you delight in somersaulting and jumping and racing around just being a two and a half year old. Your joy is infectious and I wish I could approach such activities like flushing a toilet with the same awe and spirit that you bring to what is seemingly so mundane.

You still love music. And your books. And now, “wideos” – your word for videos and the movies we now let you watch to help me find the time to feed your sister and keep you entertained and in one place. We first introduced you to the Wallace & Gromit series, and I’ve watched each of those films at least a hundred times. Now we’re onto Nemo, and despite urgings to test the waters of other Pixar films, you are holding fast to your love of Nemo. Today you told me that you think Dory loves you. And that that was pretty great.

I agree. On all fronts.

It’s unexpected and magical thought processes such as this that fill my daily life of diapers and laundry and bodily fluids with joy. There are certain phrases that you say that I have no intention of ever correcting because they are far too sweet in their current form to ever change.

Like when you are enjoying an activity and I suggest that we do something else, you respond, “No, I just want to sit for a little bit while, okay?”

Or when your food is hot, you demand that we “blow it up!” to cool it off.

Or when we sit you on your potty and you politely ask, “Please have my own privacy, please.”

I love having clearer insight into how you see the world. That has been the biggest shift in this past half year. I suddenly have a window into how you are experiencing life around you. And I am particularly impressed and filled with pride by how gracefully and sweetly you’ve adjusted to being a Big Sister. You are the reason she giggled for the first time, because she agrees that you are the most awesome, entertaining person in the household. You’re so sweet with her. And assure her that she’s okay when she cries. Or shake toys for her to keep her entertained while I run to the bathroom. You haven’t shown any anger or resentment toward her, or me, or your daddy. And you’ve taken to caring for your own baby doll through mimicking the behavior you see from me and Daddy with Courtland. That you are so aware and sensitive is an overwhelmingly touching thing to witness as a parent.

The other day I found you sitting in the rocking chair, Boppie around your waist, baby doll in your lap with a blanket draped over her, your shirt lifted, “breastfeeding.” Granted, you had Baby nursing from your belly button via the nipple shield that I no longer use to feed your sister, but the effort was admirable. And I realize that the nipple shield is a confusing phenomenon. It seems that you think of it like a bottle, as though it has a magical power to elicit breast milk from its use, so that anyone is capable of breastfeeding. While we’ve had many productive conversations about breastfeeding and biology as a greater topic, it’s understandable that it isn’t all quite clear. In fact, I’d be concerned if it were. Admittedly, I do love that you call penises, “peanuts.” It never gets old hearing you proclaim proudly, “Daddy has a peanut!”

Your father is less pleased. Although he admits that objectively it is quite endearing.

The past few days have found me feeling rather blue. It’s a combination of things: The grey skies. The dwindling daylight hours. Events in our community. Events in the world. Tough, complex personal relationships and dynamics. Mix those all together and I feel off. There’s a constant nauseous pit in my stomach. I’m filled with a sadness that I can’t shake. But then you tell me that you love me. And ask me to hold your hand so that we can dance together in the living room. And the clouds part.

You’re better than any light therapy I’ve ever tried.

You and your sister give me perspective. And purpose. And you fill even my gloomy days with a bit of sunshine. And I don’t know how to thank you for that, so I won’t try. Instead I’ll get up off my sorry butt and shake it so you can see what your Mama gave you.

I love you, Sunny.

143 Mama