Hey Porter,
(AKA: Buddy, Bub, Little Man, Little Dude, McGoo, P-Dog, P-Man, Little P)

We just made it through the celebratory grandeur of your 3rd birthday and Hoo Boy! Has this year been a big ‘un. I don’t even know where to begin. And if you think for even one teeny, tiny minute that I am going to let you off easy on this one, you are sorely mistaken my cherubic little ball of three-ness.

Let’s start with the good news, shall we?

We are all somehow still alive. And together. In one house. And no one has lost an eye. (but almost)

Now on to the news that more accurately portrays the last year of our lives together. The part where we talk about The Cute, The Angry, and everything in between. The part where I am brutally honest about the times I have felt compelled to scold your father about the fact that my eggs were perfectly happy hanging out on their own until his sperm came along, and about those extra fifty bottles of wine that were required to get me through the year, and about how you have completely negated any learning curve I may have conquered with your sister. My parenting to-date has taught me that the line separating sublime happiness and complete and utter agony is honestly so thin it is virtually invisible.

Whereas last year you found your voice, this year you found your words. The Angry is now accompanied by a running dialogue that uses words such as I-HATE-IT-I-HATE-IT-I-HATE-IT or my personal favorite – the booty wiggling, hands-on-hips, NAH-Nah-NAH-Nah-NAH-NAHHHHH song. Your execution on that one is spot-on. Honestly and truly though, your vocabulary is quite remarkable, and I can understand why – you don’t have much of a choice if you want to keep up in this family where it’s not just the words but the volume and speed with which you can deliver them that really matters most. In that way – you have risen to the occasion quite masterfully. But even more than the nuts and bolts of learning how to effectively communicate, there are those fleeting parts that years from now I will struggle to remember, like how you add ‘es’ to just about anything as a form of plural (sheepses, instrumentses, bikeses) and when you call a smoothie a poozie. Priceless.

With your new-found communication tools, comes the ability to have those kinds of conversations that history is made of. The subject of anatomy has come up off-and-on with your sister for some time now. Like that time in the bathtub when she complained that it wasn’t fair that you had a long vagina (that was only after she stopped calling it a tail). You, however have taken it upon yourself to not only understand, but educate. You have had recurrent conversations with your father about likeness and size comparisons, and without hesitation proceeded to inform your teachers at day care about the penis/vagina ratio of the student population – going around the circle articulating who had what. Mommy’s little census taker.

And while we are on the subject of those parts let’s just go ahead and get this whole potty training thing out there on the table right now. Or more accurately, let’s talk about how you have shown me yet again how little control I will ever have as a parent. I was completely fine letting this thing ride. I know about the whole boys-are-slower-than-girls thing, and about the second-kid-tends-to-take-longer part. It’s all good. But I am starting to feel like you should at least be kinda sorta maybe just a little bit interested. Nope. The best way I could describe it is that you are taunting me. One minute I am offering candy and big-boy underwear and being rebuffed with a plain and simple shake of the head; the next minute you are locking yourself in the bathroom and peeing and pooping all by yourself. Then right back to insisting I put a diaper on you. I get it son, you are calling the shots.

Same has gone for haircuts – the on-again, off-again way in which I have been able to negotiate the most simple of grooming practices. And the same for clothes – and the ridiculous rituals we must go through just to get you dressed (and keep you dressed, for that matter). You have no interest whatsoever in making it easy. Ever.

If I were to pick one thing that actually works (at least about 80% of the time), I’d say it’s bedtime. We have somehow managed to maintain a feeble grasp on that one. And I guess I’d say we are due, considering there was the better part of a year where you wouldn’t give us more than 2 hours sleep at a time. You are actually turning out to be a pretty good sleeper, and I have to admit, I find it sweet and comforting when you shuffle into our bedroom at night and want to climb into our bed. With your sister, this was never an option. It was a hard and fast rule that she would be shuttled back to her bed – the reasons were various, but the biggest one had to do with the fact that her sleeping resembled stationary cycling. You on the other hand, are a great cuddler and I find it to be one of the rare occasions when I get the opportunity – and will most likely continue to indulge it as long as I can (college notwithstanding).

And, that sweet boy, is the thing that I have started to realize with increasing nostalgia. This is it. You are my baby and you aren’t a baby. You are a boy. A pre-schooling, counting, own-name-spelling, I-can-do-it-myself-yelling little guy who embodies not one single trace of toddler or baby. I love that and I hate that. I am sad, but also excited. It reminds me yet again that no matter how trying these times are, I only get them once, and I had better not wish us past them, lest I lose them forever.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Boy.

Love,
Mom