twenty-nine months

Dear Lucy,

The last month has been exuberant and frustrating. You are torn between wanting to be a big girl and do it all by yourself and wanting to be a baby, cradled in my arms. One of your favorite games is 'stinky poo', wherein one of your dolls or stuffed animals needs a diaper change. You are methodical and gentle with them, you take off the old diaper and use a baby wipe to wipe away all traces of imaginary poo; you put the new diaper on, then you do it all over again. Sometimes you want to be the baby, and I have to pretend to change your stinky poo, and I wrinkle my nose and you laugh and laugh.

You put on your own socks, you turn on the lights in your room, you get undressed for bath all by yourself. You tell me to go away when you want to go down the stairs, then you cry for me to up you when I'm cooking dinner.

You tell us stories:

There was a noise.
It was coming after us.
A beautiful sunshine noise.

Bedtime has become a chore: you no longer go down without a fuss; instead we have rounds of more milk, one more potty, I need a hug, I need a kiss. In the morning you snuggle with me, tell me you are afraid of the dark. Ask me if I am afraid of the big bad wolf, then you howl.

We have maddening battles of wills, you refusing to get dressed, to wash hands after the potty, to pick up the noodles you just threw on the floor. You go to your room and I sit outside the door, wanting you to know that I love you but you can't leave. Sometimes you don't even try to leave, then I wonder how I am going to get you dressed and out of the door. Sometimes toward the end of this, when I am filled with exasperation, you look at me and ask me sweetly: "Mama, are you happy?"

We also have crazy giggle fests, where you tell me to "hold very still" and then try to stick your finger up my nose, an exchange that ends in tackling and tickling and laughing, laughing, laughing.

You are getting more interested in the baby, I put your hand on my belly and you got to feel him kick. Now you touch my belly a lot, waiting. I told you how having a little brother is going to be like having a partner in crime, that you get to teach him how to make signs and how to be naughty. Once you put your mouth to my belly and I asked if you were giving him a kiss, but you said: "I eat the baby!"

The whys around here have begun in earnest, whys that have answers and whys that have none, endless cycles of why that end up back at the very first question you asked and make me wonder if you're even listening when I am trying to tell you about the whole world. But then other times you make connections and I think: ah ha! you are listening! And then I try to remember. And I try to listen, too.

What is the woman's name?
What woman?
The woman singing that song.
Her name is Florence.
Why?
Because that's what her parents named her.
Why?
I guess they liked the name Florence.
My parents named me Lucy.
That's right!
And I named you Mama.

Which, actually, is also right. No one ever called me mama before you.

I love you , little gooselet.

Love,
Mama