Wednesday, August 1, 2012
To My Son, Whom I Love
Today you threw a tantrum. This happens about 3 times a week, with some half-tantrums thrown in here and there. I don't know if it's is true, but I'm telling myself that this is normal for toddlers. It helps me cope.
Grammy made you some Thomas the Train pajamas and you love them. This is why you threw a tantrum: I dared to take them off and attempt to put you in clothes and you went all Mr. Hyde on me. But I want to explain something. It's not as though I was trying to put clothes on you so that I could take you to a Communist Torture Daycare and go get myself a luxurious pani/pedi. We need to go to the store, so that I can feed you and Daddy and your Poppa dinner. You turned into an evil alter ego of yourself because I want to make you a healthy, delicious dinner.
The French took theirs too far, but I wouldn't complain if you wanted to throw yourself a revolution for the glory of Reason every once in a while.
Except the Russian spy network.
Good thing they don't read my blog.
The entire purpose of this post isn't actually for you, though. I intend on reviewing it when you're heading off to Kindergarten and I'm crying at home, missing you. You're wonderful 70% of the time, but there will be times where I need to be reminded, my son, of the toddler years.
You are still the sweetest boy in the world,
Love, Мать (that's "mother" in Russian)