To My Son, Whom I Love

Dear Nathan,

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.

During your rage, I considered my options. I could commit a crime, then plant evidence in your diaper. Some jail time would probably make you realize how good you have it here. Plus I'd get to sleep and go to the bathroom in peace for a few days. I could also take you to Yellowstone and work out some of your energy by renting you out to hikers who want grizzly-bear protection (Grizzlies, like most mammals, are terrified of you). But the option I settled on is to sneak off to Russia and sell them a "weapon of mass destruction" in the form of a perfectly genetically-engineered, innocuous-seeming child, whom they could raise and use as a Jason Bourne-meets-Hulk agent. They'd totally buy into it and I'd get millions and also Patriot Points, because I (and the U.S. Government) secretly know that you're uncontrollable and you'd show all kinds of promise, only to rip open your tuxedo jacket and reveal an American flag t-shirt in the middle of your most critical mission that now ends with the destruction of the Russian spy network. Added bonuses are your future multi-linguility and a plane trip to Moscow for Mom every once in a while. Oh. And I'd totally get to play Spy, like I've always wanted to, during the negotiations. Everyone wins.

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)