Dearest Danjo,
We celebrated your birthday this past weekend with close friends and family. It was a honey badger themed party. And if you're a Dearest Reader that thinks comparing my child to [the viral internet] honey badger is totally inappropriate, you've never met Danjo. (Click here for pictures and a post about the party.)
Your real birthday isn't until Monday, but you don't know that. So, for all intents and purposes, you're two already.How old are you?
"One, one, one, two!" you reply, pointing that finger at me.
I'd like to pretend I don't know where that finger came from, but I know you learned it from me, as I delivered warnings, admonishments, threats through clenched teeth.
And I know now that my attempts at stern discipline were a total waste of time. Because just as soon as you see that box of crayons, that pile of papers, that basket of freshly laundered and folded clothing--just as soon as you calculate your objective and I see it in your eyes--I know in that instant there is nothing to be done. No amount of finger waving will deter you.
You are a determined individual. Though at times it seems less like determination and more like a confidence, unchallenged by the rules of physics and common convention. You were born with no reason to question whether you're able to climb this or get that, including your way.
Your orneriness knows no bounds. You hit and yell. And the emotional literacy coaching we do with Bel has no influence on you. Let the parenting experts balk, Time Outs are the name of the game with you. Partly to redirect you, to remove you from the situation (usually of hitting your sister--sometimes out of anger, sometimes for shits and giggles), and partly to give you a cooling off period.
When you're mad--at me, at your sister, at the Lapu--there is nothing in the world I could say or do--no amount of ice cream or marshmallows--that would help to achieve a mutually desired outcome.
It goes:
You and Bel are playing with blocks. You are compelled to grab your sister's block, knock over her tower, or just pull her hair for no apparent reason. Or I've told you no, you can't have another band-aid. Or I've done some teensy thing--like looking at you or existing--that sets you off.
"Say sorry for hitting."
"NO!" and the hitting, pushing, pulling continues.
"I know you're mad, but it is not okay to hit. Go to your room until you are ready to say sorry."
"NOOOOOO!"
Whereupon, I pick you up and set you on your bed, kicking and screaming. You wiggle and writhe to the floor as I turn my back on you, leaving the room. And, within milliseconds, you'll start quietly playing, talking to yourself, singing a song.
More and more, you come out of the room yourself, muttering, "Sorry, Danielle," (you call Bel but not other little kids by your own name, I guess because you and she are the same category of person by your accounting). And when you don't come out on your own, all it takes is me popping my head in your room and asking you to tell your sister sorry for hitting.
"Okay, Mommy," you reply, suddenly so agreeable.
Repeat. Fifteen times per day.
Thank goodness you're cute and cuddly and a master manipulator--to make up for all the frustration of your opinionated and mercurial personality over the past two years.
As Lolopop has told me, "If it were you throwing food when you were little, I would have stopped and scolded you. But, now I know. You won't be eighteen and throwing your food on the floor."
Easy for a grandparent to say! Nevertheless, the thought of you at eighteen does offer me comfort that things will turn out alright. Either that or you'll still be throwing food on the floor in a Wellesley College dining hall and that's a bed you'll just have to lie in. [Like Leslie the squirrel girl.][If you went to college with me, you'll know what I mean.][If you didn't, then I don't think I can possibly explain what I mean, what awe-inducing sites were beheld of an eighteen year old who ignored all manner of natural and social law.]
It's not all Frustration and Time Outs these days. You and your sister play with each other more and more, for longer periods of time.
You generally adore your older sister. You repeat nearly every word she utters.
You share inside jokes, bursts of giggles erupting from your room or the backseat of the car.
You've taken to speaking in phrases and sentences, something I had predicted about you. Just as with walking, I just knew that you knew how to walk--you simply refused to do it--I just knew that you knew how to talk, you just were going to do so on your own terms.
Most things are on your own terms. You don't do baby-tricks. You don't respond to commands. You don't do repeat-after-mes. It's all in your contract, check the fine print.
Whereas your sister seems so malleable--in a good way--a sponge eager to take in, process and regurgitate information; you are your own person. You are a self-made kid. I imagine you're the type of person who will be exactly you--regardless of where, when and how you are raised.
You have begun to formulate your own original ideas. About what to wear and how things are done. Seriously. You come up with ideas and ways of doing things that I'd never think of, that are unconventional and creative, that still get the job done. In this way, you are much like your daddy, the big idea guy.
And you're funny too. Like your daddy.
You make funny faces. And do things that make all of us laugh.
You have a million faces. And a million and a half smiles. That all communicate, with perfect nuance, your every thought and emotion.
Of course, there are all the regular advancements in your physical abilities to report this month:
I can't believe it. It's been tough and lovely, short and long, tedious and exciting...
But, it really has been two years, hasn't it?
And here we go, another year before us. May God, grace, forgiveness, our family, the threat of imprisonment, child care professionals, Dora the Explorer and marshmallows helps us!
Happy Birthday, Danjo.
I love you no matter what,
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