Yesterday you turned 21 months, which is just a breath away from 2 years old. I can believe it: with every racing step, with every spelunking expedition through the furniture, and with every bit of hell you raise you show me a bright glimpse of the 2-year-old you will be. During this first week of school, you have:

• unplugged the teevee whilst Grandma chatted on the phone
• broke three candles at the local supermarket
• ”made” a pizza while sampling each of the raw ingredients
• ripped off your diaper and run through the house naked from the waist down
• pulled my glasses off my face and thrown them to the floor
• stayed up all night screaming inconsolably

I can’t figure out if you’re Pixie or Nic or your own sweet self, heir to everyone but a completely original troublemaker nonetheless. I look forward to the day’s report with a mixture of dread and amusement: we just can’t predict you anymore. You may spend the afternoon completing puzzles, watching “Max & Ruby” and admiring yourself in the mirror; or you might decide to destroy an entire store display and worm under heavy chairs when confronted.

It’s been a difficult week for you, my little sugar bush, and I can’t blame you for acting out. You’ve had 3 months of Daddy and Mommy, with lots of Grandma & Grandpa (and even Nic) for variety—-then there’s a mass exodus and you’re on your own with Grandma, who’s had an entire summer to forget your wiles. No wonder you wail whenever anyone leaves the house. No wonder you figured out within a day that when Mommy wears keys she’s going for a long time and when she takes them off she’s all yours for the night. You’ve always been curious about my lanyard, but this month you order me to take it off as soon as I walk in the door. I admire your emerging bossiness, so like my own.

I feel like we got cheated this year, Blake. After 4 crazy months of teaching, all I wanted to do was to be your mom. Taking that summer course was good for me as a teacher, but it meant that I had to carefully ration myself as your mom all through the month of July. I need to have at least 2 full months with you. Four measly weeks is just a taste, an hors d’oeuvre in the buffet of Blake. Now that I’m back with my stinky teens, I miss everything about you. I miss how you gently touch the mole on my cheek, unable to miss it in my big round face. I miss how you press your face to mine, keeping still until my cheek is wet with the drool that usually coats your chin. I miss you coming up to me with a crazy smile and a fierce hug while you trill, “you’re my sweetheart!” in my ear. I miss riding around on our bike, and I bitterly regret all the months we could have been doodling around the neighbourhood while I slowly figured out what I wanted in a toddler carrier. I miss your excellent mumbling narratives, in which you string together stories, songs, phrases you hear, teevee programs and things you want into one long monologue that a schizophrenic would envy. You’re able to bring every bit of your life into one rubber band ball of interconnected goodness, and I adore that about you (even if I can’t understand what you’re talking about most of the time).

Also: you’re a big nerd! I love that about you. You memorized the Trogdor song two months ago, and ever since we’ve been able to say with confidence, “that’s our little geek over there.” We thought for awhile that since you were such a little rockstar that you might end up way cooler than your parents. And then the love of computer cartoons asserted itself and we knew the dominant genes had made themselves heard. Welcome to awkward conversations, thick glasses, esoteric pleasures, and die of many sides.

”trogdor was a towel.” - blake

We took you to Centre Island last month, just you and me and your Grandma. It was your first visit to this most excellent of Toronto attractions, and you made yourself at home from the first minute. Already a jaded ferry rider from our week on Staten Island, you ran up and down the boat, dodging legs with an uncanny speed. When we arrived, you fell in love with each ride in turn. I honestly don’t think you’ve been happier than the 10 minutes or so when we let you drive a car. Yes, all of your pleading finally bore fruit: you were driving! Never mind that your mom was working the gas and the path was set in the concrete; isn’t that how everyone drives? I’m pretty sure that’s the way it should be.

Your face on the carousel, riding that big bunny up and down, will be with me 15 minutes after I’m declared legally dead.

I love you my little wonder. You haven’t given up everything; you just find new loves and new roads and new pleasures. Thanks for letting us sleep through the night once in awhile. Keep this up and you may even have a sibling before you’re four.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 9/09/2005 07:53:00 p.m.