Two Years, Five Months: ME AND ME AND YOU

Oh, hey there, sweet child. You are juuuuuuust a pinkie toe shy of two and a half, and life is good.

Yeah, you heard me: Life is good. So you know what that means: it’s now time for me to, with the simple act of typing out “life is good,” immediately jinx the Thing we have going on right now—which you’d of course pronounce DA SING WE HAVE GOING ON RIGHT NOW, and then spend the next ten minutes asking how to spell the entire sentence (HOW YOU SPELL DA SING WE HAVE GOING ON RIGHT NOW), and then change that sentence into a question that follows the new rules of your grammar (WHAT WE HAVE GOING ON RIGHT NOW?), and then you’d grab my face and pull it to your face for a giant grin and a way-too-long smooch, and then you’d wrap your little arms around my neck and squeeze, and I’d die about ninety times, because after many, many (MANY MANY MANY as you’d say) difficult months, you have hit a phase where you’re relatively chill and cute. as. FUCK. (HOW YOU SPELL CUTE AS FUCK?)

Do you remember what happened the last time you were in a Good Place and I committed it to posterity? I do. LITERALLY THE NEXT DAY, you started teething and my life blew to shit. So what have I done here? What have I done, I ask? WELL, you say, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT THIS TO YOURSELF AND THEN YOU WOULDN’T HAVE JINXED IT. Probably true, but this month is one of those times when I really actually do want to bottle it up and save it forever, as opposed to those times when other people tell me to bottle it up and save it forever and I want to rip their throats out with my teeth. So, congratulations, moment, you are saved forever, and thus probably immediately ruined. Here goes nothing.


So, the spelling. You still lack the motor coordination to write out letters, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to know how literally everything in the entire universe is spelled. It used to be single words, but now it’s complete sentences, often with only slight variations. Here’s a transcription YOUR FAZZER did on a recent trip to the park.


How you spell ALL DAY EVERY DAY


The good news: You’ve developed the cognitive ability to be interested in things like legos and blocks, and are a one teeny-tiny lego brick shy of getting sucked into those activities for hours on end. What is that teeny-tiny lego brick? Your motor skills are still juuuuuust shy of being able to, say, build a tower of 35 Duplos that doesn’t fall over, or open a box with a latch (though you’ve gotten super good at opening all of my most expensive containers of skincare and makeup; DAT’S MAKEUP! HOW YOU SPELL DAT’S MAKEUP?), and the result is that you’ll be happily yammering to yourself in your room, and then a split second later we’ll hear this ear-curdling wail as your toys have failed to yield to your will.

Nuclear shit-fit minus three, two…

Speaking of ear-curdling shit-fits. If I were writing into Dear Prudence about our relationship, I’d be like, “I’ve met the most vivacious, adorable, perfect, delectable, hilarious, precocious toddler and our relationship is loving, dynamic, supportive and perfect…except for this ONE THING. Every time the toddler gets even the slightest amount of irritation in either or both of her nostrils, she devolves into these life-shattering shrieks and spends literal multiple hours going WASH YOUR NOSE OUT! WASH YOUR NOSE OUT!!! Often the only thing that will fix it is if I irrigate her nose with aerosol saline spray. Which is great, except the only thing she hates more than having GOOP IN YOUR NOSE is being subjected to DA SPRAY. What should I do?” The answer, by the way, is: Bribe that child with shit-tons of candy.


The candy also works about two-thirds of the time when I need to wash your hair, which is way less often than I’m going to admit to the Internet, but if the Internet had a kid who got as pissed as you do when any part of her got even the slightest bit damp (JUST A LIL BIT DAMP!!!!), the Internet would understand. (LOL JK the Internet is full of garbage. Just like America. I’m dying here. But I digress.) We’ve attempted to mitigate your violent aversion to wet hair by chopping your ‘do into the world’s most adorable bowl cut (you look just like Tatum O’Neal in Paper Moon; please don’t start grifting us!), but we’ve yet to come up with a good solution to your similar aversion to getting any of your clothes wet. I usually just bring about four dry shirts everywhere we go, so that when the inevitable two drops of sippy cup land on your chest, the nigh-on immediate cry of MORE SHIRTS!!!!!!! will be met with, you guessed it, more shirts. Every once in awhile we do manage to grift you (HA) by taking off the offending garment, turning it backwards, and putting it back on. SUCKA.

No, your hair isn’t wet here. It’s just that greasy.


Right now your main form of recreation consists of PLOPPING THINGS WITH YOUR FAZZER AT THE P-A-R-K.  You could throw leaves, sticks and rocks into whatever body of water we let you near all day.


Your second-favorite game is called I’M TOO TOUGH TO SLIP. Guess what? It’s a misnomer.


When you’re not busy asking how to spell sentences, you’re stringing together an endless litany of conditional “when” clauses, a Kant treatise that never gets to its verb. WHEN SINGS ARE GOOD? WHEN SINGS ARE TASTY? WHEN SINGS ARE YUMMY? WHEN I KNOW THE SIGN FOR ICE CREAM? WHEN VERY GOODS DO YIPS? WHEN VERY GOODS DO NOPES? WHEN DA NOPE DID ALL DA NOPES? WHEN SINGS ARE CUTE? When in the right mood, you will do this for about twenty consecutive minutes.


When you’re not doing fifteen hundred “when” clauses in a row, you are orating on the mysteries of the universe, such as ALL THE WANZES ARE DEAD (the word Wanze is German for “bug,” and in the building’s swimming pool, sometimes we encounter a Wanze or two that has met its chlorinated grave), or you’re asking questions in your amazing preserve-everything-but-the-object-word order, like WHAT WE PLOPPING ROCKS IN THE? (answer: PARK) or WHAT WE HAVING FUN IN THE? (answer: POOL). You still call yourself “you” and us “I” or “me,” and so your phrase of choice to describe hanging out with both of your parents is ME AND ME AND YOU. You also substitute the names of the Polish children’s songs you like for our names when you ask us questions. WHAT WE DOING PANIE JANIE? WHERE WE GOING PIESKI MAŁE DWA?



We’ve now landed in Eugene, Oregon for awhile, to spend several weeks with Grandma and Grandpa. Today is one of those perfect Oregon Summer days, where it’s low 80s and crystal-clear, not too hot and not at all humid.


(The reason this letter is a day late is that yesterday Your Muzzer got to do a reading at Powell’s in Portland, only a lifetime dream, NBD.)

Anyway, since today is so perfect, you spent most of it indoors, plopped onto the bed, refusing to take a nap. You finally went down at 5:15 (that’s 7:15 Central Time for anyone who’s paying attention) and will consequently be up all the goddamned night.

But this is lucky, you see. This is what keeps this moment from being too perfect, and thus immediately and summarily ruined.

(Love, Mama)









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