Dear Lina
You are 23 months old! In one month you will be two. I can say this out loud to people, but I have a hard time actually believing it.
I know that you’re going to look back at the photos of you right now and say, “you dressed me like that??†but you really should know that you’re a well-dressed toddler. Your jeans are embroidered. Your sweaters have hoods and belts. Your boots have stars on the sides. You’ve got style, sister. I guess it’s the way I’d dress myself if I could get away with it. Black and white legwarmers with light-blue mary janes. Yes ma’am. It’s on.
I’m not sure if this has anything to do with the fashion, but you are almost always constipated lately. In fact, I brought you home from school early yesterday because you were superconstipated. Two servings of prunes and a glycerin suppository did the trick, but it wasn’t pretty.
You, however, are exceptionally pretty. I can look at you forever. The way your hair brushes over your face. The curve of your sweet cheeks. Your lips, parted just a little bit when you’re concentrating on something. Your head cocked to the side, eyes directed upward, when you’re lost in thought and it kills me that I don’t know what you’re thinking about. You’re truly something to behold, little one.
It’s been very cold lately, and when we go out to the car in the morning there tends to be ice on the windshield. This is consistently upsetting to you. I’m trying to buckle you into your seat, and you’re insistent on gesticulating wildly toward the front of the car, shouting “UH OH! UH OH!†as if maybe I wouldn’t have noticed the opaqueness of the glass. And I have to wonder what I’ve ever done to make you have so little faith in me? I assure you that I will not drive the car if I cannot see. Unless we’re fleeing from a homicidal maniac or something (like Terri and Kim in the first season of 24), and in that case I’ll just get us the heck out of there. But barring that kind of thing, I’ll use the ice scraper like I do every friggin’ morning, child. And like I would even if I didn’t have an almost-two-year-old reminding me. Sheesh.
But apart from your habit of implying that I don’t have any common sense, you are a delight to be with. Even when you’re constipated. And my favorite place in the entire universe is this tiny little spot on the back of your neck. Sometimes I’ll lift up your hair and kiss the little indentation there. Heaven. I try to do this when you’re distracted, otherwise you make me stop. But really, the back of your little neck is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.
Thank you for being mine, baby girl. Thank you for your sweet kisses goodbye when I go off to yoga class. Thank you for getting up extra early on Thursday mornings with me. Thank you for singing in the car, for liking the taste of prunes, and for feigning interest when I explain why the moon looks different from night to night.
Thank you for the way that you say “mamalina†as if it were one word.
Love, Mama