You have been on this earth now for three years, and you still can't make mama some bean nachos. If it weren't for the way you smile at me when I peer over your crib at you in the mornings I would sell you to the gypsies.
I hope that one day you will either have forgotten or be able to forgive me for the way that I am sometimes, for my absence from your life when I am hiding under the covers crying, for my obsession with laundry and house-cleaning, for my occasional inability to unwind.
And for drinking all the bourbon. I'm sorry I can't share the bourbon.
Reed, you continue to amaze me at every turn. You can count to fifty (although your fifty has several fourty sevens), you can count to ten in Spanish, you can spell your name (you spell it with three e's, but hey, that's how you say it), you poop in the potty (most of the time), and color inside the lines (when you feel like it). You are so smart. You got that from me, not your daddy. But you got your devestating good looks from your daddy, so I figure he wins.
You eat raw oatmeal and raw pasta. That's all I know to say about that.
This year you and Jude have entered into a battle to the death over who can keep daddy's attention the longest, who can take steal more of the other's toys, and who can make me hit myself in the face with a frying pan the most times. YOU'RE BOTH WINNING, and I now look like my mother carried me on a papoose board facing the wrong way for several years.
This year daddy has not only lost his mind, but also he's really not that interested in being married to me any more because he has decided that he wants to go to Burning Man. While reading up on it so that I could pretend that I considered it I ran across an article called "Surviving Burning Man With Your Kids". Reed, I either love you intensely or am a terrible mother because reading that list, just imagining having you out on the playa in all the dust and confusion made me hyperventilate, made my chest get tight, made me panic just a little bit. Why anyone would take their children to that event is beyond me, but if I was ever going to take you the only way I could handle it is if I put a leash on you. And daddy says that's cruel.
This year I've fallen further into my role as Turning Into My Mom and you have fallen further into your role as Turning Into Me, because I find myself suddenly bursting into operatic versions of Wiggles songs, Christmas songs, ANY songs, and you immediately throw yourself onto the floor and kick and writhe as you say, "NOOOOOOOOOO, STOOOOOOOOOOOP, MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMY!!!!!!" Thanks a lot, God, for simultaneously teaching me about irony, the joy of irritating my child, and how much I love my mother.
Reed, I can't wait to see more of the ways you will change, terrify, and teach me. Your ability to charm everyone around you, to assert yourself and be yourself and still be lovely and sweet (sometimes) is enviable to me. I love you more than I could ever describe, more than I could have ever imagined that I was able. If I can keep loving a person who tells me that they are going to kick me in the face, it must be real. I hope that I can live up to even half of my own expectations as your mother.
I also hope that one day you feel an intense urge to burst into "Walking In a Winter Wonderland" opera-style, and someone is there to writhe around on the floor when you do it. When that happens, I hope you think of me.
I love you,