Dear Charon,
I am sitting in the rocking chair as I write this, and I feel
like I haven't been here in a very long time. I used to rock you
to sleep every night. When you gave up nursing, you also gave
up the rocking chair. I don't blame you; as I sit here, nursing
you is what I remember, too. They go together.
Now, we lay down on the bed together when it's time for you to
go to sleep. You give Daddy a kiss goodnight, and he turns out
the light for us. I cover you with your blanket, and we snuggle
and giggle a bit and say, "I love you." Sometimes we imagine what
we'll dream about. Then, you relax and let your eyes slowly close.
I know you're asleep when I can hear your breathing, soft and
even. I love this time. I get to sit up, carefully so as not to
disturb you, and look at you. You are so beautiful. And you are
at a point right now where you are growing so fast that I just
want to stop time for a bit and memorize you before you change
again. You move so quickly during the day that I've learned to
take this moment of time each night just to meditate on who you
are right now.
Last night, you fell asleep stretched out across our mattress,
and I had to move you back to yours to make room for Daddy and
me. (You sleep on a twin mattress next to our queen on the floor.)
I picked you up the way I always have when you are sleeping, rolling
you to your back, then lifting you up just a bit and scooting
you over carefully. You were so long, Charon, and solid and strong.
You stayed asleep while I struggled to move you. As I tucked you
in again with your blanket, I looked closely at you. Your legs
remind me of my own as a child, lean and graceful yet sturdy,
and long for a kid your age. Your face reminds me of someone,
too; I think you look an awful lot like your daddy. Your features
look just the way I imagined they would when I was pregnant. You
are so familiar to me, especially when you sleep: your tousled
golden hair, making delicate curls around your ears, your sweet
little profile, that beautiful innocence with eyes closed. Pure
peace.
In the daytime, you can be many things. You are very serious
at times, and quite silly at others. You have a quiet side and
an exuberant one. You are becoming quite independent, yet my cuddly
little one is still there, too.
The Serious You gives us directions. Sometimes, I'll come into
the room where you and Daddy have been playing together. You love
to act out imaginative stories, especially with him, because he's
so good at it. When I step into your scenes (usually to announce,
"Supper is ready!" or something equally mundane), I am interrupting.
"You go in the other room, Mom," you command with your finger
pointing "out," or you give me stage directions immediately: "Mom,
you be Wonder Woman. I be Aqua Man and Daddy be Super Man. You
sit over there." You require our compliant participation when
it comes to these games. Creating is serious business, and performing
these stories is work as well as play. Interruptions are not to
be tolerated.
The Silly You loves to play a game you've dubbed, "You Do It
Wrong, and I Do It Right!" Sometimes we play this with nursery
rhymes. Daddy will say, "Hickory Dickory Whee!" and so you get
to inform him, "No, Dad, it's 'Hickory Dickory Dock!" Daddy loves
this game, too, and he's good at it. He continues: "The elephant
ran up the tree!" You laugh and laugh at the silliness of it all.
The Quiet You likes to sit with me and try dot-to-dots, or mazes,
or "Circle all of the red things in the picture." You love to
rest in my lap or on the bed and read books. Sometimes, you like
to play alone, making up little stories and songs as you play
with your toys. You have the sweetest voice and the neatest ideas,
and I love to listen to you do this. Sometimes, I take this rare
opportunity to read while you play on your own, sitting in the
room with you so that I can stop often and listen to your wonderful
imagination.
The Exuberant You jumps up and down when your favorite people
come to visit. Your grandparents are the ones most likely to see
this excited display of affection. You tell them what you want
to do with them, your little body moving and twisting and wiggling
and jumping with the excitement of having them all to yourself.
Recently, you've been able to spend some wonderful time with both
sets of grandparents. One weekend, when Grampa B. and Gramma L.
came to visit, you insisted that Grampa stay home with you and
Gramma, while I took his place with Daddy going to pick up breakfast
for all of us. "Mama, you go, and Grampa stay here!" I love that
you love them so much.
The Independent You won't go on the potty if I suggest it. I
have to say to you now, "Charon, you just let me know when you
have to go to the potty, okay?" instead of, "Let's try the potty
before we go." The first is pretty much the only reminder you
need; the second makes you shout, "No! I don't need the potty!"
and then you just hold it longer.
The Cuddly You loves hugs and kisses. You often overwhelm Daddy
and me with smooches on our cheeks that last forever. We've started
saying, "I'd love five kisses!" to help you rein in your enthusiasm
for this affectionate act. You love to count, so this works well.
I recently told your daddy that this is all my fault. I've been
smothering you with kisses since the day you were born.
I learned recently that the Sleeping You is still busy figuring
out and enjoying the wonders of the world. One night, you called
for me: "Mama.. Mama." "What is it, sweetie?" I asked, looking
at you. Your eyes were closed, and you looked to be in that half-awake/half-asleep
state. I thought you'd go back to sleep with a hand on your head,
or a comforting word and a hug. Then you surprised me. "I need
something starts with 'wuh,'" you explained, your eyes still closed.
"Water?" I guessed. "That's correct!" you praised me. I handed
you your cup, you took a few big gulps, and then fell immediately
back into a peaceful slumber.
The other day, when we were talking about babies, you proudly
announced, "I'm not a baby. I'm a kid." Yes, honey, you are. You
will always be my baby, at least in my memories of you, but you
are definitely a kid now. No longer a toddler, almost a preschooler.
(Can I call you a preschooler even if you're not in preschool
yet? That just seems strange.) You are our kid, our beautiful
daughter who is growing in leaps and bounds before our very eyes.
Take your time, sweetheart. There's no rush. You can be a kid
as long as you want.
Love,
Mom
Copyright © 2001 - 2003 Caryl Mousseaux. All rights reserved.
