Monthly Miles Memo #24

Filed under: — Aprille @ 9:42 am

Two.  2.  Dos.  Deux.  Mon dieu.

Moey at-ah plee.

That’s that phrase that woke your dad up yesterday morning.  I was getting ready for work, and your dad was hoping you’d sleep in on this Daddy-Miles day.  No such luck.  Moey at-ah plee.  Moey at-ah plee.

That means “More water, please,” and it has nothing to do with thirst.  We’ve been getting a little stir-crazy on these cold afternoons when we’re stuck at home.  I try to limit both the quantity and inanity of the YouTube videos you’re allowed to watch, which you would do all day if I let you, so I came up with the idea of turning on the bathroom faucet, just a trickle, and letting you play with it.

Now it’s your new obsession.  It wouldn’t be so bad if you were content with just that, but no—you want your supervisor to fill a cup, then you want to carry the cup and dump it into the bathtub, which means you need to put the cup down and get help to descend from your stepstool.  Then you dump the cup, then climb back up to the sink, then demand that the supervisor refill the cup.  I’m not sure why a grownup has to do that part, since you can reach, but you are quite sure that cup-filling is not your job.

Then you want the water on stronger, which we’ll let you do for a moment, but when we can no longer stomach the wastefulness and turn the water back down, you are not so happy.

It’s been a month of mood swings.  Life is either tragic or euphoric for you right now.  When we got our Christmas tree, you ran up and down the hall about thirty times, yelling “Yay!  Yay!  Yay!”  When you saw the dining room all decorated for your birthday this morning, with streamers and balloons and the number 2 formed out of sparkly pipecleaners, you let out a low but truly impressed-sounding “Wow.

You are developing a sense of humor.  You get a kick out of calling everyone Uncle [name], including Uncle Mommy, Uncle Daddy, Uncle Bean, and Uncle Mubby.  When you get an owie and I ask you where you need a kiss, you usually start with the knees, then the head, and then it could be anywhere.  Sometimes you need a kiss on the eyeball.  Sometimes you need a kiss on the Christmas tree.  Yesterday you told me I needed to kiss my own nose, and I when I failed, you kissed my nose for me.

Last week I completed an application for a highly sought-after local preschool.  You’re nowhere near ready for preschool, at least if they have a potty-training requirement, but there’s a waiting list.  The application was extensive.  I had to write about your academic strengths and weaknesses, your personality, what we would do to contribute to the school’s emphasis on diversity, and how you handle frustration.  For that last one, I wrote “Yelling.”  It seemed like that was kind of the wrong answer, like I should say that you retreat to your Unhappy Chair and do some quiet yoga until you feel better.  But, seriously, you’re two.  You yell.  You are almost never physically aggressive, which is mostly good, though it leads to you getting bowled over by more assertive children and curious puppies.

Two years ago today, I met a tiny boy, too new for the world, but strong and tenacious.  Your eyes were swollen shut, so you couldn’t see my face, but I didn’t worry about that too much since you had never seen me anyway.  We talked and sang to you a lot, the same songs we sang to you in utero, and you really seemed to recognize them.  I don’t know if those early experiences with singing and music shaped your current personality or if it’s just a coincidence, but you are absolutely crazy about music these days.  You always want to listen to the iPod or hear your dad and me sing, and you dance with great enthusiasm.  You recognize tempo and mood changes, and during a slow bridge, you close your eyes and sway like Stevie Wonder, singing “Oooooh” with the backing vocalists.

When I met that pickly, jaundiced, swollen-eyed version of you, I imagined the person you’d become.  I don’t remember any specifics, and honestly I don’t have any dreams for you besides general personal fulfillment.  I just tried to picture you as a one-year-old, a two-year-old, a ten-year-old, a seventeen-year-old, a thirty-year-old.  I’m sure I was completely wrong in a lot of ways, but you still have my mouth and your daddy’s eyes (which we discovered once the swelling went down).  You have a lot of my facial expressions, and I’m pretty sure your tendencies toward anal retention come from your father.  An ajar cabinet door is anathema to you.

You’ve been in a huge Mommy phase for the last few months.  It kind of hurts your dad’s feelings, I think, because at certain moments, there’s just nothing he can do to make you happy.  It wears me out sometimes too, when all I want to do is make dinner, and you freak out because you can’t be in my arms every single second.  It’s tiring.  You’re heavy.  The stove is hot.  The kitchen is not the place for little kids.

But…I have to admit there’s something heart-exploding about it.  When you say Mommy, and you run to my arms and bury your head in my shoulder, and suddenly everything is okay in your world, and I was the one who could make it okay just by holding you—I know I’m going to look back on these days and I wish I could always solve your problems so easily.

Today, our problems are few.  You’re healthy, save for a runny nose.  The weather is cold, but our house is warm.  You are smart—the preschool application offered a box to check labeled “Exceptionally bright.”  Yeah, I checked it.  I’m guessing pretty much everybody in the Willowwind Parents demographic checks it, but what am I going to do, sell you short?

You’re not really that short.  You’re almost three feet tall.

I love you more than than a thousand people typing a thousand words per minute on a thousand keyboards could write, even if the only words they were writing were “I love you.”

Happy birthday.  And many more.




5 responses to “Monthly Miles Memo #24”

  1. Brook says:

    Stop! You are making me all teary. Such a sweet post, Aprille.

  2. MikeD says:

    I can see the ‘developing sense of humor’ in his expressions–very intelligent, even wry. Get him up on the No Shame stage soon!

  3. mark says:

    The “Exceptionally bright” checkbox was a test. And not for Miles.

    A boy named Miles swaying like Stevie…his musical fate has been sealed, and in about the best possible way.

    Doesn’t sound like you’re aiming for that super convenient preschool up the street from you. Dunno how sought after it is, but Ava seemed to like it lots.

    Carry on, Miles!

  4. Aprille says:

    Yeah, I actually included a little note with that checkbox saying I figured everybody checked that.

    And yes, it’s the one up the street. Didn’t you have to fill out the outrageous application?

  5. mark says:

    I do recall an outrageous application, but not the exceptional checkbox. I probably wouldn’t have checked it, figuring it’s better to hit a new school as an underdog.

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