Nuala,
Apparently we’re doing only odd-numbered months from now on. Until, I guess, I slack even more and decide we’re only doing every third, every fourth, every square, or successive prime numbered months.
I suppose I have a fairly good excuse for slacking this time. Dad started a new job on the 23rd of January, and you started daycare the next day. It was a rough transition, and to be honest, it feels like we’re still in the midst of it. The first day, you were a champ! You settled right in to playing in the little kitchen area, said “Bye, Mom,” and that was that. Days two, three, and four were awful. After one day of a novel routine, you decided you weren’t crazy about your new teacher and new room and new kids and everything else, and wanted to stay home and play with me–never mind that I wouldn’t be here and though my bosses are great, I don’t think they’re convinced that a toddler will increase my productivity. By the following Monday, however, you were okay. Your teacher figured out–or I guess already knew–that the secret to making you smile was to wool you around and tease you. You’ve said goodbye with a dry eye ever since…except for that one time that I put your blanket up in your cubby instead of letting you hold it. You’ve got a real Linus thing going on with your blanket, but I guess that’s okay for the time being.
One of the great things about daycare is that it’s put potty training on your radar for good. Your teacher was convinced that you were ready, in spite of the difficulty we’d had with getting you to alert us to your need to pee. We’re pretty sure she was right. You have off days where you forget how to do the magic, but you’ve been using the potty more often than diapers at home for the past few weeks. Pooping on the potty is another matter entirely, but we’re still feeling fairly patient.
Another big first happened this month: your first bout of pneumonia, and God help us, the last. You’d had a cold that was lasting too long, it moved into your chest, and then one night you woke up with a burning fever and vomiting. I took you to the doc the next morning expecting to hear the familiar “ear infection” diagnosis, but lo and behold: pneumonia! We got your prescriptions filled, and I thought we were on the road to recovery. The next morning, after way too much television (even though it’s PBS, I think there are lines to be drawn) I noticed as we were finally changing out of pj’s that your lips were an interesting shade of grayish-purple. Off we went to the emergency room, where they measured your oxygen levels (not far off normal), ordered a chest x-ray, and gave you a gigantic shot of antibiotics in the rear. You were content to play with all the medical equipment, and really, you’re a model patient with any medical staff, but a gigantic shot in the rear end? You have no truck with those tactics. It was over in a few minutes, however, and we came home, accompanied by a Grandmom who had flown back from Florida the night before and flown down in her car the second she heard “emergency room.”
I do not like it when you’re sick, but there’s a difference between “Ear infection? Oh, ok: ibuprofen for the fever and antibiotics for the bad ear. Better in a day.” and “Pneumonia? Ok, so I’ll give her antibiotics but it might not be enough. Should I keep a paint chip of normal lip color handy just to see how far off she is at any moment? How often should I creep into her bedroom at night to see if her breathing is labored, or if she’s breathing at all? Will she get better? DOES ANYBODY KNOW?!” It is not fun, and if you were any better at showing how sick you are when you’re sick, you would agree.
I suppose one way we were able to tell that you weren’t feeling well–or that the cough syrup that contained a decongestant is a little like a mind-altering controlled substance–was that you became…awfully challenging for a few days. I was just about to say that you became a total shit, but that’s just the frustration talking. You were hitting, you were doing something the second we said not to do it, “NO!” was every other word out of your mouth, and we couldn’t get you to behave like a normal human being unless we were literally wearing you out. We simply didn’t know what to do with someone, even (especially?) a 2-1/2 year-old who was so determined to do the opposite of whatever we wanted her to do, then collapse on the floor, face-down, and cry. Because we never know what’s a true phase and what may be happening because of a change in routine, we were a little frightened. I am glad to report it was the cough syrup. Within 12 hours of stopping, you were mostly your old self again: defiant, to be sure, but also lovey and easily distractible. We like you like that.
You are getting so big, and so verbal, and so adept at feats of physical strength and courage, and I almost can’t remember how we got here. I know we must say this every other week, but your dad and I are gobsmacked much of the time at how much of an actual person you are becoming, and how much we like you based on actual personality traits that you demonstrate. It sounds so silly, doesn’t it? This is my favorite part of parenting, I think: there’s always something new. Maybe not awesome-new, maybe more challenging-new, but always something new. The ways we have grown as human beings together, all three of us…I’m not sure I could ever put the right set of words together to describe it. It’s a big deal, though, and it’s because of you. So thanks for that!
Just three more months, and you’ll head into your third year, can you believe it?
Love,
Mommy
