Wednesday, July 31, 2013

“42 is a nice number that you can take home and introduce to your family.”

To my boys,

Today your mom turns 42 years old. I remember when my own mom turned 42 because I was 13 at the time. Since you are quite a bit younger than that, you probably won't remember this day at all, but that's okay. All you really need to know about it is that we had good cake.

Being 42 with two little ones means that I don't get to act like I think a person my age should. In my mind, when you're 42 that means you get to eat real meals that don't involve goldfish crackers and you spend your time getting pedicures and reading the latest novel. At our house, we're still trying to forget that incident when one of you painted his entire penis with green fingernail polish. It takes all of my time and energy to keep up with the both of you and I do it because if I don't, you follow me around saying, "maam, Mama, MAAA, MAAAM" in this Boston accent that I have no idea how you acquired.  It works on me much like when they blast REO Speedwagon at high volume during hostage situations. That is, I will pretty much do anything to make it stop. It sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not. I love that you keep me young, even though sometimes that means I'm so exhausted at the end of the day that I go to bed at 8:32 pm which is approximately two minutes past your bedtime. I'm usually clutching a bottle of wine like a teddy bear dreaming of the day I can enjoy a glass of it without one of you asking me to take care of that itch in your bottom.  (for the record, you are on your own with that).

Hopper, this last year we've spent a lot of time having people try to categorize you in some way or another. You have this energy level, you start your sentences like you're answering a question that nobody asked and you refuse to look at at piece of furniture as anything but a launching pad--so people want to assign labels and put you in some sort of pigeonhole they can deal with without thinking about it too much.  But the only category you truly belong to is this: the AWESOME one. You have the best damn smile in the world, partly because it lights up your whole body and partly because I know you use it to distract me from whatever naughtiness you're about to commit. It's okay, I'm on to your tricks and I still think you're pretty great. Except for your Knock-Knock jokes, which quite frankly, could use a little work.

Rowan, you're two and a half which means that you spend your time either trying to stick your fingers up the dog's nose, belly laughing at your brother or having apoplectic fits when you don't get your way. You have this thing you do when you get upset: you'll be screaming til you get purple-y faced and then you'll just throw your hands up in the air and yell, "THATH'S  ENUFFS" like anyone else has anything to do with it. It makes me laugh every time.  You love animals and the feeling is usually mutual. It's not unusual to see them following you around like a booger-ridden pied piper.  You're a hoarder with your toys--I usually have to take about 15 of them out of your crib at night after you fall asleep, so you don't roll over on a bulldozer in the middle the night. And you are starting to talk so much. There's still quite a bit we don't understand, especially when you have this dialog going on about power rangers and bubbles, but at least once a day, you come up to me and squeeze my leg and say very clearly, "I love you MAAAM." Sometimes you even do it without wiping your nose on my pants and that is the best.

We're going to have some more adventures this year, guys and I can't wait.

I love you more and more every day, mom

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