Recently in Dear River Category

Four years, one month

By Autumn on January 9, 2012 1:30 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

I had written that I didn't think I would continue to write you monthly letters past your fourth birthday, but I find it's a habit and I want to continue. You may not change a lot now but I continue to have little stories from your life I want to preserve for you. Like your new bike that you received from Santa Claus this Christmas. I planted it in your head that you needed a new bike. I even encouraged you to shout out loud that you wanted one for Christmas since Santa could use his Christmas magic to hear you. (You were too shy to actually speak to the Santa that you sat with at Ikea)

You've had a tricycle but by the time your legs were long enough to pedal, your friends were all on upright bikes. You've been way behind on your physical skills--not because of you but because of me. I'm the mom that would much rather read to you and work on your writing than go out bike riding or teach you to swim. I am easily frustrated when it comes to teaching you physical things. Maybe because I'm not very physical myself. Not much of a team player and would much rather walk alone in the woods than rock climb, play a game of football, or run around just because. I knew you needed some of these skills though. Biking is something I really love (and I am craving a bike of my own). And, much like you, I don't take directions well or enjoy trying new things. So I knew it would be a challenge to get you bike riding but I knew once we got through the hard first part, you'd love it.

So, Christmas morning you come out and explain, "Santa did hear me tell him I needed a bike!" And this bike it huge. The first day I drug it and your old tricycle down stairs, into my car and to the park--your feet kept coming off the pedals. You needed constant help. You wanted to give up and play on the playground. You whined and argued that you couldn't do it. I was stern, "You can and you will and you will like it." I made you go around and around running between pushing Sage and helping you and trying to do both at once. Biting my tongue to try not to show you my frustrations. I just wanted to let you play on the playground too. You fell twice and got back up twice--once covered in mud. I gave you tons of praise about this because I'm not sure I would have done the same thing when I was a kid. When you told your Dad about it later you were proud of the fact that falling didn't keep you from trying. We've been back to to the playground a few times since. This last time you ranged far ahead with your friend on his scooter. You went flying down the hill dodging walkers with their dogs. You used the breaks and frowned hard when biking up the hill. You hardly needed help and when you fell, you got right back up. I imagine that lessons without training wheels are in our future sometime soon. I dread them. O, I do. But I look forward to the day when we can race side by side on our bikes laughing into the wind.

Christmas gets more fun every year you get older. This year you actually opened all your presents without being distracted by new toys. You moped a bit when you had to wait to open something new but I made you wait. One person at a time and let's enjoy giving gifts as much as getting them. (I tried!) You had fun playing with my cousin's children and have made yourself at home at Grandma's. It wasn't that long ago that it was hard for you to go to the bathroom anywhere that wasn't home. Now, you do it all alone and don't want anyone to watch or be in the room. Your stool and potty seat were packed away months ago. You grew and grew into this vibrant kid this past year. Sometimes I look around when we are out and catch a glimpse of you tearing past. No longer in need of my constant eye upon you. I can see how my free time will open back up as you children age. As you and Sage need me less and less. That used to bother me, but now I just celebrate with you. You are overjoyed by your independence. When we went hiking you ranged ahead and scrambled over rocks. You were part of the child group while your father and I stayed with the other adults and the toddlers. I am torn between being alarmed that you have one more year at home (when you seem so ready to go to school) and glad I get that extra time with you before your world really opens up into being just yours and not ours.

I find the largest challenge with you is your sister. Everything she does you whine about. "She's touching my book!" or "Sage is trying to steal my food!" I understand she is annoying. Sage is always into everything and it's hard to even read a book to you with her around climbing on my lap, trying to rip the book out of my hands or screaming and crying because she wants me to read a different book to her right that second. But the whining. It drives your Dad and I insane. "I don't want too." is your most frequent complaint. Whined with the whine tone that is like shards of glass through our eyes. All that being said, you do love your sister. That much is readily apparent. You were so excited to share a bedroom with Sage and asked for her to please sleep in your room the second night her bed was in there. So now I get her to sleep and put her in your room. When you woke up last night and tried to sleep in our bed, Daddy told you Sage was in your room and to go back to your bed. And you did--alone--and slept!

Overall, you are amazing. Helpful when prodded, independent, imaginative, curious. (Or maybe your insane sister just makes you look really good!) Capable of being reasoned with has to be the most awesome bit of being the older child. You are the easier one in every single way. The one I lean on. The one that helps me with Sage and holds open the door when I am loaded down with bags of groceries. The one who can wait without screaming. The one that can speak to me. The one that can play rounds of Candy Land and ask me questions, share thoughts, vocalize your love. It feels like you got through some battlefield with you--babyhood, followed by toddlerhood, followed by the Terrible Twos and the Trying Threes and into this field of daises and sunflowers that is the Fantastical Year of Four. (only one month in, but I'm an optimist)

Hugging Daddy you told him, "You are the best Daddy ever." and then you told me, "You're the best Mommy ever." What more can parents ask for?

Love,

Mommy

Four Years Old!

By Autumn on December 9, 2011 7:06 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

Last night I held you on my lap and asked you how old you would be tomorrow. "Four" you responded. I pretended to be aghast with a gasp and wide eyes. "How did that happen?" I shrieked. "How are you so grown up?" You made big eyes at me, cupped my cheeks and whispered, "I'm sorry, mommy" in your drama voice. The one you use when you are pretending to be Captain America dying on the ground or Spiderman unable to get up and continue a fight. Then I kissed you all over your face. Sage pushed her way into my lap and preceded to try to kiss you to. This caused squealing and laughter on your part and her happy yelling. Soon she was chasing you around the room. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. A moment when I pushed aside all anxieties and stresses to enjoy my most precious two little people for all that they were and all that they gave me. It's so hard to believe it has been four years since you were placed--bloody and crying on my chest.

I have come to believe that children are pretty much who they are going to be the very moment they are made. The bones of personality, the quirks, the passions are already in place. You have been quick to tears since the first moments. You have been quick to smile and quick to laugh and quick to inquire, speak, move, dance, and give love. That has not changed. You have always been kind. Never a kid to hit or push another child. Never one to rip a toy out of someone else's hands and demand it was yours. You'd rather wait and take it when you have a chance. You are still this way. I watched you play fight with a friend. Each time he pushed you to the ground, you smiled and got back up. He was aggressive and competitive. I doubt he would have gotten up with a smile. Your pushing and "hits" were pretend--light and gentle. His...not so much. Being cruel, rough, or thoughtless doesn't come naturally to you.

O, and you are so very sensitive. So very needful of touch, cuddles, reassurance, words, attention and time. In fact, I tell other people that you are my needier child. Yes, even needier than your younger sister. In many ways you remind me of myself. In other ways, you remind me of my brother. I lay my hand on your chest over your heart and I tell you, "You have a good heart, River. A very good heart." I am so very proud of you.

This month we have heard some new River-isms like, "I can't believe my life!" You say when you are surprised. Or, "I was just joking you!" You have begun to take your big brother duties more seriously--telling me when Sage puts something she shouldn't in her mouth and taking it upon yourself to hold her hand when we are outside. When she wouldn't come get her shoes on the other day, I was joking about leaving her. You did not think it was funny. You said we could not leave her and you would not go without her. I know she annoys you sometimes, but you are often the model of perfect big brother behavior.

You woke up this morning and asked me how fast you ran now and how strong you were. "As fast and strong as a four year old," I told you. Then you jumped. "See how high I can jump now that I am four? See how cool I am now that I am four?" As if being suddenly four gave you magical four year old powers.

The day started with a birthday sign, a CARS Tin with a birthday note from all of us and three chocolates. I placed a small game by your plate. Then I made you hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, your favorite breakfast sausage and gave you a doughnut covered in rainbow sprinkles. After breakfast, I read you a Dr. Seuss Happy Birthday story you had never heard. When you went to preschool, you took the mini cupcakes we had made together yesterday. When you came back, Daddy gave you a whoopie cushion and you played with Heather for a bit. Then we left for Friendly's. A wonderful Friendly's with stellar staff. We got an appetizer to share and a make you own sundae for you. When they brought it out all the workers there sang you a song. Almost the entire restaurant was clapping in time to the song. You hunkered down against Daddy overwhelemed by it all. And it took you awhile to blow out the candle. Though you had no problem telling everyone you were four now. Or how you used to be three, but now you were four. The Friendly's folks gave you a card signed by all of them with a menu to order another make you own FREE sundae next time you come back. (I know what we'll be doing after you get your shots next month since you doctor is right across the street!) We then went to the dollar store to buy you some birthday decorations for your party tomorrow and tipped a sax player outside to play you your favorite Xmas songs, Jingle Bells and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Then home to presents. You still will fixate on one gift and not want to open any others. We had to make you open the rest after you got your Captain America action figure. You sighed, rolled your eyes, and abandoned presents as soon as they were unwrapped. I thought you would have grown out of this, but no.

I can't begin to tell you how special you are to me and how beautiful. You have warm brown eyes ringed with darker bands of color like the life lines of a tree. Your lips often become chap. So it is good that you love chap stick. You have big feet and your back tans the best of any part of you. Some of your hair still curls, but most is now straight. You have your father's chin and the shape of his mouth but your face is very similar to mine as a child. You are so tall already and very fast. You still love to be read to and have an amazing vocabulary. I almost wish I could box up a version of you and open it for you when you were a man grown. Show you what a precious boy you were and how very much I loved you then. I suppose this is why I write you these letters. So you can see how important and amazing you are in this moment and how you have always been treasured.

Happy 4th Birthday, River Reed!

I love you so.

Your,

Mommy

A wonderful, blessed four years of you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Three years, eleven months

By Autumn on November 10, 2011 7:05 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

You are driving me into the arms of parenting help books. Things were so easy when you were a baby and I was your world. Now I am regulated to the role of that-darn-mom: disciplinarian, slave driver, and nag. Sometimes you look at me like, "Just shut up" and I look at you like, "I just want to boot your ass across the room." And then one of us cracks a smile and your warm eyes crinkle at the corners and your nose wrinkles up. Luckily, neither of us holds a grudge easily. So while our relationship is rent with disagreements and head butting, we both know how to apologize and cool down. Last night when talking to my best friend, I told her what a trying day I had with you. The litany of complaint went as follows, "He looks right at me and doesn't hear me. He doesn't know why he was doing crazy things and then he keeps falling down all the time. He acts like he is drunk! It's so aggravating." And then, with a pause, "He's divine justice. He's just like me."

Indeed, we are a lot alike which is why I am chocked with guilt every time my gut response to your behavior is something I know would have hurt my feelings when I was a child. But changing parenting style, using respect and compassion and putting aside my first emotional response, doesn't always work. What does work is what I do after. When I've sent you or both of us to our rooms and then ventured back into yours to hold you close and tell you, "I shouldn't have yelled. I was just so mad. I got frustrated. I'm sorry." You told me yesterday, "I'm sorry your mouth hurts, Mommy." I know that when I voice my anger and frustrations I won't scar you so much as help you learn how to deal with your own anger. Only now you say things like, "I just got frustrated." when it really doesn't make sense to say it. Still, voicing emotions and showing compassion towards others. Check. Check. I think that means I'm doing okay, kid. Even if you are guilty of stealing.

The other day you stole something. This, especially when it comes to sweets, is nothing new. You're the kid that fisted jelly beans you'd found in my purse in the hall when no one was looking. So we were about to leave from preschool and I noticed you were doing the pee pee dance, but with your fist clucked over your pocket and there was something in there. Upon inquiring what you had there, turns out it was a candy you had taken from your friend's centerpiece. I told you that you couldn't take someone else's candy and to put it back. You ran off and I looked away, looked back, and saw you under the table (though still in clear view) eating as fast as you could. I waited till we were home to try to teach you a lesson through a story about a little boy named River and his friend who stole and ate his lollipop. How did River feel about his friend taking and eating his candy?

"River turned into a giant and stomped on his friend before he could eat it."

"What?! No, River. That isn't what happened!"

"Let's just pretend."

"No, no. This is my story and that...that isn't the point."

I eventually gave up and explained that I was going to take a candy from your Halloween bag and give it to your friend. Oh, the tears. You said you were sad you ate your friend's candy. Of course, you weren't actually sad until your own candy was in paril. I took pity and allowed you leave to pick out a candy of your choice to give to your friend. That suited you better. After all, you picked something much smaller than the huge red lolly pop I had intended.

You are a bit of a bully when it comes to your sister now. She is learning that bigger kids just take stuff from her hands and have no respect for her person. I know when you are after something she has because it is the same response she gives when the neighbor's one year old daughter comes after Sage to knock her over and/or steal her food. She cowers against my legs. Sometimes I can be fair about it. I am an oldest child myself. I know that isn't easy when your very young and naturally, an adorable self-centered little shit. When you take things from her it's about control. About saying, "That is mine." When so much that was solely yours (my time and attention) have been given first to the one in the most need--your younger and very often lately, sick, little sister, I can understand the increase in being harsh with your sister. I shouldn't accuse you of being a bully, though sometimes I do. I shouldn't snap at you, though sometimes I do. I know, at the core, you are a thoughtful and sweet brother. One who will jump to fill the comforting gap for Sage when I am busy. Who will press her close and say, "It's okay." We're learning River. Both of us. I often wish I could be perfect for you, but I can only strive to be better. Our humor sees us through the bumps in the road.

You tell jokes now. You asked me, "Mommy, where are my goggles?"

"I don't know, River."

"Where are they?"

"I don't know."

"Boo!" You said pulling them out. "They were hiding." And then you laughed like you were very very funny. A trait you must get from your father who often titters like a schoolgirl at his own horrible jokes. And when you call him on thinking he's awesome, he just laughs harder. But you don't only think you are funny. You laugh at a lot of word play now. In the car you often listen to the lyrics to songs, something hardly ever do. Music, for me, is background noise. You started laughing and I said, "What?" "That man's pants are on fire. That's silly!" You also told me you like music by the Smashing Pumpkins. You sing a lot of silly songs and often come home from preschool singing something I've never heard before.

School wise you are really growing. You write your entire name. You cut like a pro. You raise your hand to ask questions and suddenly enjoy drawing and other crafts much more. You are become unruly with your friends. We can't trust you boys alone. Toys become weapons and you play games of shoving and hitting. We need to watch you all closely now. You're all wild!

The funniest moment this month was when you told me, "Mommy, when Sage is sleeping let's play pin the tale on the honky." I almost died laughing.

This year of your life is almost at a close. Three has been a challenge but much fun. You blaze like a little sun. You shine.

Love,

Mommy

Three years, ten months

By Autumn on October 6, 2011 7:04 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

The worlds created daily by your imagination are becoming vast and complicated. Sometimes I watch you pretend things by yourself--shadow boxing super villains in the corners and mumbling under your breath. Sometimes you try to involve me by telling me who I am. Tonight, I was a giant dust bunny, and I had to try to get you. When I actually try to play along, you often tell me how wrong I am and that I'm not doing it right. I've discovered the loophole though. I just need to come up with a plausible reason why I am safe from the sharks swimming around my feet and then you pick it right up like it was your idea to use shark repellent spray.

I've read that four year olds have the strongest ever imaginations of any age of human beings. It's not surprising then that you spend almost all day pretending. The play with your friends is the same way now. Instead of two boys climbing, running and throwing things, I watch you and a buddy converse and build pretend shields that you use to fight pretend bad guys. Playground equipment becomes a boat tossed upon a shark and alligator infested sea. You fly dragons down the sidewalks. You have alter egos like our good friend, Pizza Slicer. When I tell you to pick up, you say, "I'm not River! I'm Pizza Slicer and I'm a bad guy." I learned to respond with, "Well, whoever you are, if this doesn't get picked up, I'm throwing it away." You often make up words and names. Complete nonsensical gibberish. You are extremely creative.

In the car you are so chatty but you often mumble (something Daddy says you get from me). You ask me what iron man armor I would wear. You talk about the monster truck you will own that can turn into a house. I ask if it will have a pool in it. I ask if it will fly. The conversation goes on for ten minutes with each of us taking turns adding what your monster truck house can do.

Daddy shared the following little story with me. He told you to clean you room and you ran off, staying in there awhile, came back out and said you finished. He didn't think you had really cleaned your room. I'm not surprised since you rarely clean up anything without being constantly watched and reminded to finish cleaning. Daddy then asked you if you were telling a whopper. (a phrase for 'a lie' that was in one of your books) He said you got an 'Oh, shit' expression on your face and ran back into your room. Along with that vivid imagination, if the not quite clear understanding that saying something doesn't make it so. It's sometimes as if you think you can think something into being. So you say, "I didn't hear you." after you do something naughty that I just told you not to do. I know you heard me, but you can say you didn't right? You can pretend you didn't.

You have taken a huge interest in writing. Your friend taught you how to make a "J" only you hook the bottom over to the wrong side. Daddy always wants to correct you, but things like this are quite normal (and he knows it). I always simply praise, except when you tell me I am wrong when I am clearly right. Like when you write an "F" with an extra line and try to tell me that is how I am supposed to do it. Why? Because your friend told you that. Just like your friend told you you could go in his car home from preschool. And even though I told you that your friend can not just invite you over without asking his mother's permission and then you asking mine, you still throw a fit and glare at me like I am a villain when I drag you into our car.

Friends are very important to you. I've watched you and your friends run into each others arms to say goodbye and then tell each other 'I love you'. Often you cry when it is time to leave them. I don't even get a goodbye when I leave you at preschool and I might as well not be needed when I take you to a playground with a friend. I won't hear a peep. You are lost in your own world with your peers. And so, it truly begins. I can feel myself fading into the background with new descriptors like, nag and old, and boring.

You have grown so much over the summer. Your pants I just bought in late winter, barely fit. You are taller than some of your friends and certainty lankier. O, and you are fast. You can keep up with me running uphill. There are so many things you are good at but so many thing you don't do yet like swing yourself without being pushed and ride a big bike. Things (here we go again) that a certain friend can do that you can't and now you are old enough to care what other people think. To be embarrassed if you don't know how to do something, to cover your face when you are trying not to cry and tell me "don't look at me", and to proclaim "Mommy, don't talk about that (having to poop) in front of other people!"

I feel like this all kinda of crept up on me. I look at you and wonder where my baby went, where my toddler went, and how you became this child with all these thoughts and feeling. O, the feelings. The tears over everything. The anger at some slight I didn't intend to give. The stank expression and attitude. You've become suddenly complicated and I'm still left thinking of you as my baby. "What is it, baby boy?" I ask. "Don't call me baby!" you often say, arms crossed over your chest. "You're not listening to me!" Hurt feelings left and right because you are so grown up and I'm your mother just learning how to take you seriously. (and it takes a long long time for parents to take their children seriously. Blame it on those twenty-five years of age and experiences that will always lay between us like a chasm. That and the fact that I have been wiping your butt your entire life so far.)

Still, there are little moment. Brief, so brief, when you are an echo of my long ago red-haired little baby. When you are in my arms and look up at me and start again the conversation we occasionally have together. "I'll always be your baby?" you ask. "Yes", I assure you. "You'll always be my baby." "Why?" you ask. "Because you grew in my belly and I held you in my arms." "Even when I'm all grown up, I'll be your baby?" "Yes, even when you are bigger than me." "I'm your first baby?" "Yes, my very first baby." "And I'll always be."

You'll always, always be.

Love,

Mommy

Three years, nine months

By Autumn on September 8, 2011 8:37 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

This is a month for guilt. I have no idea how I am so busy, but I-AM-SO-BUSY. I remember those days before I had a car, when we would spend hours and hours simply playing. Granted, I had one less person to clean up after, we had little to no social lives, and you had a long nap in the center of the day for me to fill with my-time and unfinished chores. Still, I miss you. Part of this feeling is you or your age or some figment of my guilt ridden mom-mind. You feel like a sponge that can never get enough water--ever. It doesn't matter how much I do, how much I give--with you, it never feels like enough. You always want more and more and more of me. Thus the guilt. I get tired of telling you "No, not right now" or "You have to wait" or "River, I have to do this first. I just have to!" or "After--" or "Later" or "I just--". Maybe this is a sign to slow down. I have no idea, but let me tell you--a big part of being home with you and Sage is simply caring for you. I am here with you, but I have to shop for us, make food, take us to this place and that place, plan for preschool, organize the transition from summer to winter clothes, fix up this or that in the house, daily chores, weekly cleaning...

When I get a sliver of time just with you, a moment of peace to sit back and look at your face, I feel this wave of--oh-my-god-he's-so-big. I feel fear, panic, wonder, and love. So much fits into so few years and, damn it, I am so often so very tired. No, exhausted. I want to treasure each moment but it runs away from me. I'm left feeling the past smack me in the face. A very, this is how my mother felt, feeling.This was me (almost four years old) running in circles, talking a mile a minute, saying "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" over and over and over again. My mother was this tired, this pulled in a thousand directions, she was this.

I often wonder what you think of me now. Do you fear me yelling? Do you think I'm mean, unfair, that I like Sage better, that you are bothersome? I want to be that fair, generous, nurturing mother all mothers probably want to be. Only, I'm just me. I sometimes snap, "Stop doing that. It's annoying!" or "Can you please just be quite for a moment?" I hope the loving mommy balences out the bitchy mommy I've been lately-- (I blame my painful mouth full of canker sores, post-travel stresses, and gearing up for preschool).

You like to make up elaborate stories. "The magic" you explain, is what wakes you in the morning. You try to sleep in, you do, but the magic wakes you up. It wakes up everyone. You tell me that the wooden block down your shirt is your medication and that when you hold it, it turns you into Black Panther. When I complain that my mouth hurting is making me angry and cranky, you later came up to me and said, "My tongue is irritating me. It's making me cranky." You love to sing in the car. Especially "Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar" and a similar song called "Telephone". You also like "The Old Lady That Swallowed a Fly" only you make up crazy verses about her eating some houses, cars, bees, elephants, etc.

Lately, jealousy is really doing a number on you. You say that you wish you were a baby. You want me to feed or dress you randomly and when I refuse you cry and cry. There is a lot of crying. About half of it is fake. You see how we hurry to sooth Sage when she cries over a boo boo. So you blow everything out of proportion to try to get that same attention. Then you hear that you're too old for that and to stop it. "I wish my head was smaller like Sage's so I wouldn't hurt you with it." you said sadly when you'd hit me with your head for the second time. You jump all over Daddy and I and hurt us. You aren't aware of how much you've grown and how much stronger you are. Today, when Sage got a present in the mail for her birthday, she started tearing up tissue paper. So you did too. I told you to stop and you didn't listen. Then I snapped at you, "You understand me when I say stop! Now stop!" and I yanked the paper from your hand. You flung yourself back and cried and cried. I often hear, "I'm trying not to cry, because you yelled at me." or "I'm just so tired, it makes me upset." And yet, you won't sleep. You won't sleep past 6:30. We need to put you to bed at 6:00 but that often doesn't happen--especially when Daddy works late. Sage doesn't need to go to bed that early. It's hard to get you in bed that early. But we need to work on that. You're always over tired and you will not nap either. Poor kid.

I need to slow down our days for us, River. Before we traveled to New York, I was making sure we were spending all of Sage's nap together playing or doing some activity. Lately all it feels like I am doing is snapping at you. Mommy will try to do better. I savor our little moments--the promised game of Candy Land that had to wait till the next day. But I was determined! I left the box on the kitchen table so we could play right after breakfast between cleaning up, getting you sister down for her morning nap and hurrying us out the door to a play date. There were the hastily read books before I dropped you off at the neighbor's and took Sage to the doctor this afternoon. We snuggled for just a bit between and around Sage demanding to get on the couch and off the couch, to have this book read to her and that book. And finally, the hug I gave you before bed, when I held your face between my hands, kissed you and told you I love you so before you wiggled away to twist naked around the room.

I'm craving a day just with you when I can give my full attention to your endless talking and silly, repetitive questions. When you don't have to chant my name or whine to try to get my attention. This mommy thing is hard, little man. Still, there is always tomorrow, isn't there? Let's make tomorrow about you.

Love,

Mommy

Three years, eight months

By Autumn on August 9, 2011 6:15 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

It's getting harder and harder to write these letters. You don't change as much each month as you once did. You are really set as you. When we went for a family walk last night you ran ahead of us and we marveled over how any trace of the baby you had vanished. It was still there a year ago while we waited for Sage to arrive. Sometime over this past year the baby has fled as if whittled away. You are tall and skinny, elbow and knees. You are complex and imaginative. You problem solve and wonder out loud. You are the true start of whoever you will become. You only need time, with all its many lessons, to bring you to adulthood. That being said, this will be the last year I write you these monthly letter. Starting at your fourth birthday I will write a letter four times a year or whenever I feel like I have a story to tell you.

Here is a story. I put Sage in a new dress and you commented that it was pretty. You said that you wanted to wear a dress too. I couldn't think of a good reason not to let you. Your father could, but I didn't want to explain the nuances of social expectations and traditions. So I sorted through Sage's packed away clothes, found you a size 4 dress and let you wear it around the house. Even though I think boys should be able to wear dresses if they want to, I could not let you out of the house dressed liked that. To meet you half way, we are purchasing you a kilt. You adamantly proclaimed you loved wearing dresses, wanted to wear them every day and would wear dresses even in college. You're so very silly and you knew it.

You are obsessed with changing your clothes and driving me insane. Not only are your drawers a mess from you going through them but you make too much laundry! Is it really necessary to change your underwear three times? You still love to dress up and will swap costumes and tell me stories about what is going on. You still enjoy helping me cook as well. We recently started working on cutting with scissors and writing more. You enjoy both. Our goal is to get you writing you name. We have the "R" and "i" down (though sometimes they both take up the entire paper.)

This past month you had a mega tantrum when it was time to leave your friend's house. You hit me a few times, threw yourself on the ground and had to be dragged upstairs. You always have a hard time saying goodbye. After you flipped out, I went to talk with you. Turns out you were really mad because your friend refused to let you take one of his toys home. You also were tired. As we talked you burst into tears again, threw yourself over my lap for comfort and wailed "I just love my friend more than you!" I had to try not to laugh. It was very hard. Oh, the drama. There is a lot of it. You are exceptionally sensitive at times and now there are complex reasons. You are taking it out on me. And for some reason this is easier to handle than the babyhood screaming because I wouldn't let you play in the toilet. I understand moods, and hurt, and frustrations that are embedded in feelings and the confusions of growing up. That being said, you are incredibly selfish but slowly learning that you need to share this world with others and consider their feelings. Sage is probably the best lesson for this.

You are such a good brother. If Sage is giving me a hard time, you often distract her for me. You are quick to snitch and keep her out of trouble. This really helps a lot. Sometimes you are too rough. If she gets hurt you more often run and hide than stay to help her and take the blame. You play together so often now. It's a blessing for me and so lovely to see.

As you get older it's harder to know what to do. Our pet gerbil died and we've seen dead animals on the sides of the road this summer. "All things die" I tell you and that was good enough. We'd guess what happens to us after we die but I admit that I don't know for sure what happens, but I like to think that we get another chance. You like the reincarnation idea too. That, you stated, is what you will believe. An older child, when we found a dead buck, told you that you were going to die like that one day. So lately all I've heard, now and then, is "I don't want to die when I'm older." Daddy thinks we should lie to you and assure you that you won't, but I don't want death to be a scary thing. It's a natural thing and it can be so sad. It's a hard thing to tell you. I repeat again, "All things die. Don't worry. It won't happen to you any time soon." And there is another lie. It could, couldn't it? The thought chokes me. But it could. This is how parenting is hard. What do I tell you? What do I say when you ask why you don't go to church (because you friends do)? How do I explain praying, when we don't? How do I know what faith to teach you when my faith is a feeling in the gut, a broad generalization, a rightness that takes paragraphs to ponder through? I don't want you to have nothing. I'm just not sure yet, River. Do I teach you what others believe without telling you anything is right or wrong? This is hard, dude.

A few other antidotes from this past month:

You ran away last night. No lie. We were coming back home from a walk and you ran ahead. Usually, you stop at our door, but you ran across the parking lot and into the neighbors house. They were eating dinner when you barged in. You didn't really understand what you had done wrong. The entire NEEDING TO BE INVITED over thing is beyond you. You want to see your friend so you go to his house--end of story in River world.

We have been working on you sleeping in your own bed every single night. It mostly ended up being Daddy sleeping in your narrow, twin sized bed with you. He was growing some scary bags under his poor eyes. So now we are trying you coming into our room when you wake up scared and sleeping on the crib mattress on the floor. That works much better. We are also working on you getting up and playing alone in the morning if you decide 5:30 is a great wake-up time and we all disagree. I miss you in our bed, I do. You are too big and wiggly. I think you had enough time there. That being said, I personally HATE to sleep alone and don't think you should. I can't wait to put you and Sage in one room!

River, you are a sweet, intelligent little boy. I couldn't ask for more from you. Every day with you (okay, most days) are a joy.

Love,

Mommy

Three years, seven months

By Autumn on July 12, 2011 6:04 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

Well, it only took you the better part of four years to have any interest in dressing yourself. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little. You have been putting on your own socks for awhile. Sometimes you even layer a few. This reminds me of those times your Uncle Bryan put on every pair of underwear he owned and dared me to punch him in his balls. I guess I should only be thankful that it's just a couple pair of socks. Now every morning and night and sometimes just through the day because you can, you are dressing yourself. At times your underwear are on inside out or backwards. Sometimes you get frustrated trying to find the arm holes in your shirt, but essentially--finally you want to dress yourself. I have to say I made the mistake of laughing at your bafflement as to why your penis was sticking out the side of your underwear and what could you do about it. For an entire two weeks after you would purposely do that or stand in front of the mirror and laugh at yourself. I had to ignore you to stop that nonsense.

You recently began telling Daddy that you don't love him. I have since heard this as well. You say it with no rancor. Simply, "I don't love. I love Daddy." or "I like other babies but not my baby" or "I like my friend J more than I like you.". I just shrug and say, "Okay. Well, I love you." I understand you're trying to put things in context. That to the young, life is very black and white. You realize things can be favorites, best or better. Still, you little jerk. Also, I thought I wouldn't have to deal with that crap until puberty.

Since Sage has begun moving, you've been acting up. I know it's hard. I had a younger sibling too. Someone who emulates you by getting all into your face, following you around and messing with your possessions. It's also hard because we expect more of you since you can communicate in words and have a entire nearly three years experience over Sage. You say she is being mean to you, but have trouble understanding that she doesn't know how to be mean yet. You also get too rough with her sometimes, but there are those blissful moments when you play. When she stands and you crawl towards her and gently knock her onto her butt. She laughs and laughs. I think you would be lonely without her. That you would miss her if she suddenly went away (like you imagine would be very nice sometimes). This doesn't stop either of us from missing our days when you were my baby.

You're so big now. Long and skinny. I can't stand to sleep by you any more. You wiggle and poke. You're just too big. You've begun talking about yourself in the third person. This is because your father and I do this when we refer to ourselves as daddy and mommy. I haven't heard you do this since you were much much younger and called yourself, baby.

We were out in the baby pool and you were pouring cupfuls of water onto a toy funnel with spinning wheels beneath. "This is my sex machine," I thought I heard you said. I went blank. Sex machine? What the hell has he overheard Jason and I talking about? I gave a shaky smile. "A what machine, River?" "A sex machine!" you said again, annoyed. "This is my sex machine!" You poured more water and looked at me like I was a fool. I asked you to repeat yourself again. "A six machine" "Oh!" I laughed. "Six!" "No, Six-x, machine." So, no River. This was not a Freudian slip on your mother's part. This was you making up weird words again.

You often tell me you want to grow up to be a mommy. You also told me you want to grow up, be a daddy and marry me. You ask me if when you grow up to be a daddy, if you can be a boy again after. You tell me you never want to grow up. I say you must. You say, no. I tell you that you can go to Neverland, but that I will miss you very much. I will not know how to get home from Neverland if I go there, you say. I remember that I wanted to go to Neverland when I was little too. You put balloons and balls up your shirt and tell me it's your baby and then insist I watch the baby come out. You drop it on the floor and tell me it's a boy named Canter Burton. You told me you want me to have another baby and that we should name it River. You want friends to be where ever we go so you have someone to play with.

Where once I was your best and mostly, only, friend now I sit back and watch while I care for your sister. I insist you go play with the other children. I miss us playing, but this feels right. You are growing up. Kindergarten is only two years away. Our lives will always intercept but they will drift further and further apart. You, my son. I, your mother and so much else unknown--because (though it was always so--it didn't seem like it) we are two different people walking along our very different paths. Now instead of in my arms or held by my hand, you often run ahead or drag your feet behind while I prompt you. More and more, I am not always there for your discoveries and experiences. Sometimes you are flying solo. I miss what was, I do. I also, push you to try more. Like nudging a baby bird out of the nest, I understand now (even celebrate) you testing your wings.

Love,

Mommy

Three years, six months

By Autumn on June 9, 2011 6:44 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

You are huge--higher than my belly button and proportioned just like your father. Your legs, it seems, go on for miles. Your eyes are shaped like mischief. You are quick to smiles, sprouting silly gibberish and pretending on the spur of the moment. You find props and then become "Escaper Man" or "Coo Coo Man". You dramatically pose and then tell your father to do them same--then correct him after he gets it wrong again. For awhile you pretended to be Captain America while wearing the baby stackable rings on each wrist and holding one to throw as your shield. You'd go ahead of me into rooms to clear out the bad guys first. Randomly you tell me your spider sense is tingling and then ask me to put on your worn out Halloween Spider man costume. You will also have Captain America sense or Batman sense. Depending on what superhero you are currently pretending to be determines my name. I spent an entire week being called 'Captain America Mommy'.

You are the sweetest boy. Very free now with hugs and kisses, especially before bed. You will give your sister tons of cuddles and kisses. If she is sitting on the floor you are sure to go play with her. Hugging her, holding her, pulling her up and down and rolling around her. I explained to you that you are like a superhero to her--bigger, stronger and that you must protect her always. You often do a good job of it. Today at the playground you were trying to maneuver these two huge dump trucks in the sandpit. I kept telling you to put one down, but you wrestled with them both till you got to Sage and I and then said, "Now Sage can have one and I can have one" and then you ran off with one--leaving the other you had picked out for your sister.

Your behavior is so much better lately. Mostly because I calmed the fuck down. When I am stressed, you are stressed. The only thing that really gets on my nerves now is your ceaseless nattering. You talk just to hear yourself talk. You ask what even though you heard my answer three times, going on four. You repeat yourself endlessly and talk non-freak'in-stop. I realize you just want to chat and don't have all the chatting skills down yet--but after a long day I sometimes have to send you to your room for five minutes because you are incapable of being quite and I'm just about to do an Oedipus to my ears. Tonight at dinner I threatened to tape you mouth shut and you practically begged me to. You even went to get the tape. I didn't have the energy to explain that I was kidding...sorta.

You are getting quite good at pushing buttons. You know when you are being annoying and repeating this behavior is your own little way of getting revenge. Your friend might scream in your face and hit you. You? You'll slowly drive him to insanity by slyly getting him more and more worked up until he screams again. You do it to Daddy and I too. You clever little brat, you. If you get really mad, you will grumble and mutter under your breath. Defiance is still there, but you are becoming more subtle at it. Picking your battles if you would. Sometimes I miss those easy early years when I just told you "no" and you kicked and screamed a little instead of all the "Why nots?" and "I'm not going to listen to you." and sly smiles before you go and do it anyway, or grumbling little mutters while you stomp away.

You have a hard time with goodbyes. You never want to end activities and often have to be physically escorted after multiple threatenings back into the car or the house. You often cry when you have to say goodbye to friends and family, especially Daddy. Daddy tries to sneak out early every morning before you wake so you won't linger in his arms crying and then run to the window to watch him leave. It's heartbreaking and Daddy remembers being that way when he was little. You always can't wait for Daddy to come home.

You talk about how one day you will grow up and be a Daddy and then you will go to work too. Then there will be two Daddies at work (as if you and Daddy would be the only Daddies in the world). You need your life to be a constant and to have things broken down so you can understand. When I talk about getting a house one day with a yard, you say you only want to keep the house you have now or can we keep the one we have and also get another?

I can't believe you are officially three and a half.

It just keeps getting better, River.

I love you so, so much.

Your,

Mommy

Three years, five months

By Autumn on May 9, 2011 6:11 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

Three must be an age of sensitivity. You have so much drama. Today a friend and you were beating on each other on the playground. Boys rough house. If you aren't complaining and he isn't complaining then I'm generally okay with letting you have at it. Problem is, this kid is sorta a jerk and everything is well and good until you get him pinned and he screams at you. You are then offended and ignore him by sitting on the end of the slide. He climbed behind you and started kicking you until you fell off. Since this is usually part of your play, I didn't think anything of it until I saw big tears slipping down your cheeks. Your refused to tell me what was wrong and went and sat by yourself. You aren't like that kid. You're not quick to turn on a friend and yell or throw a tantrum if he takes your toy. I much prefer when you play with a kinder kid or a girl who is more talk and pretend and less overall violence. Indeed, when you play with girls you can often be found talking. I watched you sit for fifteen minutes in a giant sandbox chatting with a girl.

But back to the drama. Almost every single night we have drama. It's a combination of you being tired and also your hunger. We've really cracked down and are not letting you eat anything else but what we serve for dinner. You, generally, refuse to eat it and go to bed early and hungry. You will wail and cry. You will sob, "Oh, gosh! Ohhhhhhhhh!" as if what we are asking you to do (eat food other than PB&J, yogurt or cereal) is truly torture. So off to the shower you go and you are fine until you father takes you out and you loose your shit. Wailing, kicking, screaming--acting like he is beating you. If I'm not in a good mood that sounds ripes through me. It's the same crying my brother used to do when he genuinely had something horrible to cry about. (ie: my dad threatening to drive away and kill himself). Okay, so this is not your typical sappy letter to you, but I'm a rather honest woman and I want to be honest as your mother. It is what I feel when you carry on that way. It cuts through me into some hidden well of panic. My heart hammers, I feel anxious and ready to flee. If it gets bad enough I have to stomp in and tell you, "Stop! You have to stop that crying! You have nothing to cry about!" And that is a blessing, isn't it? That you can act like the world if ending over getting out of the bath? But geez kid, you're giving me more grey hair at an alarming rate!

There is something I've been meaning to mention and keep forgetting. When anything is riped (my jeans) you say, "Your pants are cracking up!" A friend painted one of your nails and as it chipped away you tell us it is "melting". There are so many things like this that I can't remember. You like to sing. It's adorable. You have been writing more and more letters. You constantly steal graphic novels your father is reading and carry them around. You told me that you didn't want to turn four and you never wanted to grow up. When we hint that pretty soon you need to stay out of our bed at night you look so confused. You don't want to sleep alone ALL night. Why would we do that to you? You told me, "Girls pee out their butts." And are confused when I try to explain that isn't so since we, the girls, don't have peps. You don't understand why boys can't have babies either.

This month we've found a place of peace. I'm understanding that you are still very much you even with all this growing. You still want to be babied even if you don't ask for it or reluctantly give me hugs and kisses. You hide your pleased smile and stay in my arms like you have been dying to be welcomed there all day. You want to compromise unless you are overly tired and then hugs and love work best to get you through the drama. You want reassurance constantly--that I love you. That it is okay. That I forgive you. That you can make it right.

So let me confess to you, right here, that is so many ways you are still my one and only. You have a special place in my soul because I look at you and see myself. I am often terrified of not being the best parent for you. I feel echoes of my past in your little face and I worry. I worry that everything I have known will live again in me. That I won't be perfect. I know I don't need to be perfect, but I've said it before--I want to be that, for you. It's hard to remember what it was like to be a child. If I could, I know I'd be better. It's hard to be calm, rational, reasonable, and make the better choice when you act like such a shit. I know being hard on you is teaching you to be a better person. You need to learn empathy and manners. Sometimes I'm good and sometimes I'm not. But mostly, I think, I do right by you. I hope when you are grown you can forgive me my mistakes. I hope that if you become a Daddy and your child is wailing over something minor, your only memory will be your sister doing that about something incredibly stupid. Maybe you will have more patience than me. Maybe you will be less likely to fly off the handle. And if having a stable home is the cause of that--well that it's good thing, isn't it. But please, less insane wailing over not getting your way?

After all, there are starving children in this world who would love to eat your spinach.

(you spoiled, lucky little shit)

Love,

Mommy

Three years, four months

By Autumn on April 11, 2011 7:09 PM | Talk to me

Dear River,

Today your father and I were reminiscing about you. It was brought on by Sage in a pair of your old pajamas. You were a charming baby. You smiled and laughed often. You were cuddly and interactive. You are still this way today. When we went to the zoo you saw a young couple with their one year old. "That is such a cute baby." You said aloud. They thanked you. You went up to talk to the baby. You insisted on waiting for him and following him. Every time there is a baby you sit down beside that child and touch and talk to it. "I like this baby," you tell me. "I just don't like my baby" and then you give me a look. The look that says you know I know you are lying and that it is hilarious to lie. You do the same thing when you watch Diego and they review things at the end. You purposely, consistently, give the wrong answer every time and then laugh at having done so.

You really do like your baby. You help me with her often. You make her laugh and play with her. Now that she is bigger you will pull her back against your body and hold her. Often you get too close to her face and talk way too loud, but she just blinks and then smiles when you pull back. I watch you together and feel both pleased and a stab of grief. Once upon a time that was your Uncle Bryan and I in reverse. It was me making him laugh. It was his face lighting up with joy when I ran up to him. I am so glad you can have Sage to share your world with. I'm so very glad she has you. Because, River, you are a good person.

You are gentle. Not naturally cruel or unkind. You are happy and outgoing. You are often very oblivious, scatterbrained, rash, giggly, clumsy, and distracted. But you are also emphatic, nurturing, loving and thoughtful. You extended your hand to a bigger child today when you saw him struggling to climb something. You try very hard to make friends everywhere we go and you call them just that, "my friends". Even if you only played with that person for an hour. You cuddle with my friends, sitting beside them or plopping onto a lap. Ah, so far kid--you and I are a lot alike.

Lately, when you've gotten angry or upset (especially when you know what is right but still don't want to do it/aren't okay with it) you wrinkle up your face and shed a few angry tears after running away to the far reaches of a playground or against the wall of a room. Once it was about not being able to sit in a baby swing because Sage was in one and the little girl I watch was in another. "You are the biggest and can sit in a big swing. So the baby swings must go to the babies." You didn't like the sound of that. It's hard not to get what you want when you are three, I know. I see you struggle in your selfishness every day--learning agonizing step, by agonizing step what it means to share in this world and be part of a group (and not always its center) When it was your turn and your tears have dried, I told you "I was the oldest, you know. Like you. I had to let my baby brother have the baby swing. I had to wait." "You did?" "Yes, I did." And you smiled at me because I understood.

It is never all roses, especially not with three year olds. You are extremely talkative. You have so much energy. Oh, and you keep getting up between 5:00 and 6:00 no matter what time you go to bed. So we are all tired, including you (and you will not nap). We loose patience with you. We often say, "Get out of the kitchen! Just get out!" or "Just go to your room for a little bit and play!" or "No, we are busy. We can't play right now, okay?!" It doesn't matter if we have been busy most of the day having our attention, you still hate being alone or playing alone. You act up if your father and I have a conversation that excludes you--throwing toys around, being overly loud. It's so annoying. You are so annoying. Endearing, precious--yes but so very often annoying!

What can I say? We have our good days and our bad days. Here is what life is with you-- I trust you. I rely on you. I enjoy going places with you, talking to you, teaching you new things. You still cuddle with me every morning and want to rub my arms. You still will randomly come up and hug me and say "I love you, mommy". You frustrate me. Your exhaust me. You fill me with purpose and pride.

I love you very much.

(Please, lets sleep in once in a while)

Love,

Mommy

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