Dear Callum,

Can you believe you’ve lived at our house almost three years now?  Your birthday is coming up next month, and I’ve been pressing you to decide what kind of birthday cake you want.  Since you and Miles have birthdays on consecutive days, I usually make each of you a small cake so we’re not swimming in cake leftovers at a time of year when we should be reducing, not increasing, our junk food intake.  You’ve been changing your mind every time I ask you.  Today you said raspberry cake with chocolate frosting.  That sounds all right.  I don’t want to work too hard on finding the perfect recipe, because you may well change your mind again.

The biggest theme of the month in your life has been “I do it all by myself.”  I remember your brothers going through that stage again, and I’ve had to remind myself that it’s a normal part of development.  It can be hard when we need to get somewhere on time or accomplish a task with any degree of finesse.  You’ve been really interested in making your own cinnamon toast lately, and you don’t yet have the hand-eye coordination to spread butter or sprinkle cinnamon with any kind of evenness.  Usually you do it (your favorite part is using the toaster, of course), then I try to sneakily redistribute the toast toppings a little bit as you’re fastening yourself into your high chair.  You won’t accept any help on that either.

We’ve had very little forward motion on the potty training front.  Miles is really anxious to move into “your” room—the quotes are because you’ve never slept there once in your entire life, but it’s where we store your clothes and change your diapers.  Miles wants to wait until you’re potty trained to take over the room, because he doesn’t want us going into his room to change your diapers.  I can understand that, but his position might change if you don’t make some progress soon.

That transition will also mean having you sleep in the bunk bed room with Tobin.  Tobin hates sleeping alone, so I think you’ll have to go in there if the whole room shift is going to be a success.  You sleep through the night pretty consistently now, unless you’re sick or something, so it will probably work.  I’ll miss having you in bed with me, though.  I was recently listening to a podcast, and the speaker was talking about how during a difficult time in her life, her personal trainer asked her to come up with ten things that made her happy.  The best she could come up with was imitation crab.

That was a sad state of affairs, and I’m pleased to report that Gabrielle Union is doing much better now.  I decided to make my own list, and it was much easier for me to come up with ten happiness-inducers in my life, none of which were real or imitation seafood (though I do get a thrill out of having real crab legs for my birthday).  One of the very top things on my list was how I feel when I look at you sleeping next to me.

The last year has been hard.  For years, one of my favorite moments of each day is when I’m in my pajamas, face washed, skin moisturized, teeth brushed, and I cozy into my bed.  I often get a wiggly little thrill at the simple sensory joy of that moment.  For the last year, I haven’t had that.  I’ve gone to bed and felt sad and scared.  You may not remember what happened a little over a year ago, but I do.  I’m deeply worried about our country’s future.  I remain seriously concerned about how our least fortunate people will survive in a culture of self-centeredness and greed.  I’m also angry on a much smaller but frequently-experienced level that this turn of events has stolen my bedtime happiness wiggle.

But maybe things are looking up.  I hope we’re on the threshold of a sea change in the way we hold people accountable for their behavior, regardless of political affiliation.  I’m sorry to see progressive politicians go, but there’s no room for hypocrisy if we’re serious about demanding respectful attitudes and behaviors from our leaders.

You’re not even three yet.  You don’t know about sexual harassment or police brutality or injustice.  But I hope you become someone who fights those things, and seeing your little chest rise and fall in the spot next to me in bed is helping me find my happiness wiggle again.

You insist that you’re not a little boy anymore, that you’re a big boy.  That may be true, and you’re probably ready to go sleep in the bunk bed room.  I’ll find my happiness in the other nine items on my list, and I bet I can find a good one to add, too.

Maybe it will be the way you say “What are we going?”, which means both “What are we doing?” and “Where are we going?”  Maybe it will be the way you dance when your favorite songs come on.  Maybe it will be the joy I saw on your face when we turned on the lights on the Christmas tree.  Maybe it will be the plastic salads you make me from your toy kitchen set.  Maybe it’s the way you’re a big blob of cinnamon sugar on what sometimes feels like a barren, dry toast landscape.

The toast is actually pretty good.  We use that tasty bread from Costco.  It’s even better when you manage not to sit on the loaf in the grocery cart.

I love you, you little stinker.

Mommy