Dear Baby Boy
Dear Crosby,
Right now, I am praying that I don’t get another call from your preschool saying that they can’t get you stop crying and I need to pick you up. Your first week of school started perfectly – no tears, no hesitation, just excitement for a new, independent adventure.
That started crumbling on week two, as your time at school became marked by periods of crying, until by week three, you began the school day with tears that never stopped until I arrived to get you.
We’ve had many chats about school and why you don’t want to be there. The answer is always the same. “I want you, Mommy.” And it’s so sweet to hear that, to know that I am loved by you and your safe and comfortable place. But it is time for you to explore without me, because that is where your real growth begins. You can do this. I know you can. You just have to choose to see the new things waiting for you rather than the familiar things that are missing. We have read almost every book published about starting school and leaving Mommy. We have created games around going to school. We have watched videos about going to school. We have playdates with the boys in your class. I don’t know what else to do but try to stay positive and encouraging, listen to you and hold you and then simply send you off without looking back.
This has been a big summer for you filled with accomplishments. You essentially potty trained yourself in July. You tried it out a few times in the spring, then gave it up until one day I told you all the diapers were gone and just like that you started using the potty. Some bribery in the form of candy and toy cars was required, but it was way less stressful than the epic battles that ensued with your sister (who taught me that some things should not be forced, like potty training).
You also overcame your fear of water in August, when you bravely walked through a wall of water to swoop down a water slide at the local pool. Much different than your trepidation and refusal to get even a drop of water on your head at the water park in June.
Now, we are both adjusting to a huge change in routine, as we wake up early to get Addy to school then navigate our way through a day filled with just you and me. We both admit that we miss Our Addy, but then have lots of fun.
And now the biggest adjustment you’ve made so far – getting used to standing on your own two feet without a familiar face to comfort you and finding that your own two feet can support you just as well.
You are a sweet and transparent boy, telling us often that you love us, squealing “I’m so happy” when you’re excited, burying your face in your elbow if we pay too much attention to you or stomping off to pout when things don’t go your way.
And your laugh – it bubbles out of you with such pure joy that it cheers up anyone nearby. As does your endlessly wonky hair. You’ve got two very unfortunate cowlicks – one on either side of your head – that I cannot get to stay down, which means your head looks like it may take flight at any moment thanks to your hair wings. That’s what you get for bury yourself so far down in the womb that your hair grew weird against my pelvic bones and I could barely walk during the last three weeks of my pregnancy.
You are also relentless in everything you do, passionately aware of what you want and fixated on achieving it. Like when you want to get out of bed in the morning. Somehow we have magically trained you and your sister not to get out of your bed yourselves, so you don’t ever just wander into our room and begin harassing us. Instead you lay in your bed and yell, “Mommy! Mama! Mommy! Mama! Mommmmmmmmmyyyyyyy!” until I come and get you. It’s a jarring way to wake up, but when you are up, you are up – giggling and ready to play.
You will be three-years-old at the end of this month and I cannot wait to keep learning who you are and watch you become self-assured. There’s a whole big amazing world waiting for you and I just know you’re going to charm the pants off it. So go explore, My Little Adventurer. Just make sure you wear your helmet.
I love you, I love you, I love you my sweet, sweet Baby Boy.
Love,
Mommy.
His separation issues are genetic. When I was in kindergarten I could get home to mommy by puking at will. Hot radiators as puke targets were especially effective. I think it’s called “adaptive skill formation.” Message: Do not come to the rescue! More skill development on everyone’s part.
Love,
Dad
I had no idea you had such puking powers. What talent! Perhaps you can rely on them again next time there’s a meeting you want to get out of? Love you!
Nicely done, Liz.