An Open Letter to My Son

Nathan Scott,

You are a tornado of mischief and happiness. Many mothers write to their children as babies and say sweet, emotional things, but I know you, my Boy. You are not one to revel in emotionality. You are action and touching and moving and figuring out. The two emotions you partake in are as follows:
ANGER: When hungry, tired, hurt or mad at Momma. Manifestation: whining and screaming and smacking.
CONTENTMENT: Every situation other than anger. Manifestation: grinning as you systematically destroy my house as efficiently as you destroyed my navel while you gestated.



You know that I love you. You are quite fully confident in it, which is something I envy in you. I strive to take for granted how loved I am, as sky-is-blue fact and, like you, live a joyful existence in that confidence. And you love me, too. And you love your Daddy. You hug us around the legs and knock incessantly on the door when we're trying to use the bathroom and yell, "DA-DDEE!" and "MO-MEE" at the top of your lungs, just because you can.

Your current favorite toy is the squirt bottle Dad uses to wet your hair down before he cuts it. You grab it when you think I'm not looking, send a Dennis-the-Menace look my way and haul diaper to the other end of the house, where you proceed to moisten the couch, the floor, yourself and Henry with a malicious grin. Henry is not on the best terms with you right now, Nate. I hope this changes, but you don't tone down your tornado for anyone or anything and Henry is a peace-loving sort, easily overwhelmed by your intensity. I don't think he appreciates being squirted in the face, either. Something to consider.

By the way, I sat down to eat dinner tonight and got a wet rear. I know it was you and the squirt bottle.

Being your mother is a chronically tired thing. But it is also laughter. Lots of laughter. And joy. Your grin is fabulous. It makes me happy in a sunshine-and-chocolate-cake-in-my-soul kind of way. When I put you down to nap and instead you lay there saying, "tick, tock, tick, tock..." to yourself, I want to be frustrated with you, but I laugh instead. You are contagious, my Boy, but I've never enjoyed catching something quite this much.

I love you, you little Monster.

Mommy