Dear Luke,
Today we had this conversation as we were putting you down for a nap.
Me: What are you going to dream about?
You: Riding a skateboard. I'm going to ride it to Mimi's house to show her.
Me: And what will the skateboard look like?
You: Wellll... the board is black. And the wheels are white. And there's letters. The wheels have letters.
Me: What do the letters say?
You: They say, LUKE! And renehmboh, he's three years old. Three. Years. Old. LUKE! [MIDDLE NAME]! [LAST NAME]!
I mean: really.
Every day is better because of you, kid.
Love,
Your Mama
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Letter Twelve
Dear Luke,
You've taken to requesting that you and your dad play percussion instruments while singing your nightly songs. Specifically: you play the egg, and your dad must play either the conga or that little ridged thingie with a stick, sort of, that sounds like, RRRRREEEEE-eee-eeee, RRRREEEEE-ee-eeee! (I have no idea what that's called, but by the time you can read this you probably will. And you'll be mortified at how lame your mama is.)
Anyway, it's nothing short of joy on a stick to hear the two of you up there, playing your respective instruments as you shout, SPIDER-MAN! SPIDER-MAN! DOES WHATEVER A SPIDER CAN!
Thanks, kiddo. You make every single day brighter. Even when you're driving me crazy and even when I get upset and yell, you make every day brighter and I adore you with more than I knew my heart could hold.
Your Mama
You've taken to requesting that you and your dad play percussion instruments while singing your nightly songs. Specifically: you play the egg, and your dad must play either the conga or that little ridged thingie with a stick, sort of, that sounds like, RRRRREEEEE-eee-eeee, RRRREEEEE-ee-eeee! (I have no idea what that's called, but by the time you can read this you probably will. And you'll be mortified at how lame your mama is.)
Anyway, it's nothing short of joy on a stick to hear the two of you up there, playing your respective instruments as you shout, SPIDER-MAN! SPIDER-MAN! DOES WHATEVER A SPIDER CAN!
Thanks, kiddo. You make every single day brighter. Even when you're driving me crazy and even when I get upset and yell, you make every day brighter and I adore you with more than I knew my heart could hold.
Your Mama
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Letter Eleven
Dear Luke,
Here are a few of the things you say and do lately.
a) You wrote a song on your conga drum, aided by a piece of a different instrument that you are using as a drumstick. It goes thusly, and it's spoken/sung with a LOT of snarly sort of attitude. It's... well. It's almost a punk song.
You could run really fast/Or, if you wanna read a book/Then read a book NOW!
At the end, you throw the "drumstick" on the drum with a great theatrical flair.
b) You say ruefully that you wish I could be in various bands, like The New Pornographers and The Arcade Fire, because "you would have a lot of fun, Mama."
c) You ask to call your Mimi so that you can speak with her in Spanish. You then instruct me to speak with her in Spanish, ostensibly so that you can listen to my end of the conversation. Actually you've become a bit hung up lately on whether or not people speak Spanish. You ask everyone, and if they say no, you teach them a word or two. Then you say to them, very encouragingly, ¡Sí! ¡Muy bien!
I remembered the other day that you used to say waddy for fish. Waddy! We never did figure out why.
Boy, you are painfully cute, so smart, so kind. I adore you.
Your Mama
Here are a few of the things you say and do lately.
a) You wrote a song on your conga drum, aided by a piece of a different instrument that you are using as a drumstick. It goes thusly, and it's spoken/sung with a LOT of snarly sort of attitude. It's... well. It's almost a punk song.
You could run really fast/Or, if you wanna read a book/Then read a book NOW!
At the end, you throw the "drumstick" on the drum with a great theatrical flair.
b) You say ruefully that you wish I could be in various bands, like The New Pornographers and The Arcade Fire, because "you would have a lot of fun, Mama."
c) You ask to call your Mimi so that you can speak with her in Spanish. You then instruct me to speak with her in Spanish, ostensibly so that you can listen to my end of the conversation. Actually you've become a bit hung up lately on whether or not people speak Spanish. You ask everyone, and if they say no, you teach them a word or two. Then you say to them, very encouragingly, ¡Sí! ¡Muy bien!
I remembered the other day that you used to say waddy for fish. Waddy! We never did figure out why.
Boy, you are painfully cute, so smart, so kind. I adore you.
Your Mama
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Letter Ten
Dear Luke,
Monday was your third birthday. Third! Before becoming your mama, I didn't understand the sense of disbelief that I heard from other parents when their child reached a particular age. But now I get it. Someone I know likes to say, "The days are long, but the years are short" and that very nicely sums up how life is with you.
Last night we went to a Christmas party at my former boss' house. You were the only kiddo there, and quickly you became the hit of the party. You have great manners, you are truly intersted in other people, you're good natured, and you've got an excellent (if a bit bent -- sorry about that, you never really had a chance in that arena) sense of humor. Your dad and I are amazed, all the time. Even when you are being obnoxious and whiny and causing trouble, it's with an insight and a creativity that makes us stop and blink for awhile.
You've continued to be interested in music. You sing constantly, and you experiment with structure and timing a lot -- syncopation and things like that. I am a little bit completely blown away by this. You told me yesterday that you want to be in a band with me. Apparently, I will play drums and you will play "cuh-TAR." You also wanted to hear "Challengers" by The New Pornographers over and over again, saying that Neko Case sounds like me. (Imagine if you had any idea of what to do with that kind of flattery.)
Currently, your favorite songs are:
* Real Gone - Sheryl Crow (From the movie Cars)
* I'll Tell Me Ma - Sinead O'Connor (You say that this song "looks like a strawberry.")
* Challengers - The New Pornographers
* Haul Away - Split Enz ("Hollaway Song," you call it. Right around the third verse, when a few more instrumental sounds kick in, you say, "This song looks like snow!")
* Nature Boy - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds ("Nick Cave Boy Song.")
* Nails in My Feet - Crowded House ("The sad Neil Finn song," you call it.)
* Human Touch - Elvis Costello
* All These Things That I've Done - The Killers ("I Got Soul But Not Soldier Song.")
You also really enjoy classical music, and you've gotten really good at identifying the sound of a violin. I mean, really. You must be the coolest, smartest person I've ever met in my life. There's an expression in Mexico -- Me quito el amor de madre -- I take away my love as a mother and still, you astound me.
A few days ago, your Mimi emailed me this pretend phone conversation she witnessed:
Hi, Mama. What are you doing? I’m just over here playing at Mimi’s house. I need a really good friend named Mama to come ovo heo and play with me. OK. Bye, Mama. I love you.
You've become interested, finally, in learning Spanish. I was worried for a long time because not only were you not interested, you flatly said you didn't want to learn. I think maybe you became determined to learn after realizing that you couldn't understand what Mimi and I were saying right in front of you. You have a ways to go before your Spanish skills catch up to your English skills, but you're doing just fine. Your accent is nearly perfect. You seem to have inherited my ease with language, which is so exciting to me, selfishly, because I can't wait to discuss the intricacies with you. One day.
You've also inherited your dad's attention to detail and dogged determination to figure things out, to make things work, to bide your time. You're not nearly so impatient as I am, and you're a remarkably good sport when things don't go your way, when you're stuck in your carseat for long periods of time, when you need to do something you don't want to do.
What else? Oh, yes, you will eat nearly anything. You are the least picky child I've ever met. You love helping out around the house. You love figuring out how things go. You have a ready supply of odd jokes. You can't stand to see anyone unhappy. Your heart is endlessly tender and you are terrifically good-natured.
Boy, I don't understand how we got so lucky. Every day I thank God for loaning you to me. Every day I try to be better, to be the sort of mama you deserve. You've totally changed my life and its meaning. I adore you, my three-year-old.
Love,
Mama
Monday was your third birthday. Third! Before becoming your mama, I didn't understand the sense of disbelief that I heard from other parents when their child reached a particular age. But now I get it. Someone I know likes to say, "The days are long, but the years are short" and that very nicely sums up how life is with you.
Last night we went to a Christmas party at my former boss' house. You were the only kiddo there, and quickly you became the hit of the party. You have great manners, you are truly intersted in other people, you're good natured, and you've got an excellent (if a bit bent -- sorry about that, you never really had a chance in that arena) sense of humor. Your dad and I are amazed, all the time. Even when you are being obnoxious and whiny and causing trouble, it's with an insight and a creativity that makes us stop and blink for awhile.
You've continued to be interested in music. You sing constantly, and you experiment with structure and timing a lot -- syncopation and things like that. I am a little bit completely blown away by this. You told me yesterday that you want to be in a band with me. Apparently, I will play drums and you will play "cuh-TAR." You also wanted to hear "Challengers" by The New Pornographers over and over again, saying that Neko Case sounds like me. (Imagine if you had any idea of what to do with that kind of flattery.)
Currently, your favorite songs are:
* Real Gone - Sheryl Crow (From the movie Cars)
* I'll Tell Me Ma - Sinead O'Connor (You say that this song "looks like a strawberry.")
* Challengers - The New Pornographers
* Haul Away - Split Enz ("Hollaway Song," you call it. Right around the third verse, when a few more instrumental sounds kick in, you say, "This song looks like snow!")
* Nature Boy - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds ("Nick Cave Boy Song.")
* Nails in My Feet - Crowded House ("The sad Neil Finn song," you call it.)
* Human Touch - Elvis Costello
* All These Things That I've Done - The Killers ("I Got Soul But Not Soldier Song.")
You also really enjoy classical music, and you've gotten really good at identifying the sound of a violin. I mean, really. You must be the coolest, smartest person I've ever met in my life. There's an expression in Mexico -- Me quito el amor de madre -- I take away my love as a mother and still, you astound me.
A few days ago, your Mimi emailed me this pretend phone conversation she witnessed:
Hi, Mama. What are you doing? I’m just over here playing at Mimi’s house. I need a really good friend named Mama to come ovo heo and play with me. OK. Bye, Mama. I love you.
You've become interested, finally, in learning Spanish. I was worried for a long time because not only were you not interested, you flatly said you didn't want to learn. I think maybe you became determined to learn after realizing that you couldn't understand what Mimi and I were saying right in front of you. You have a ways to go before your Spanish skills catch up to your English skills, but you're doing just fine. Your accent is nearly perfect. You seem to have inherited my ease with language, which is so exciting to me, selfishly, because I can't wait to discuss the intricacies with you. One day.
You've also inherited your dad's attention to detail and dogged determination to figure things out, to make things work, to bide your time. You're not nearly so impatient as I am, and you're a remarkably good sport when things don't go your way, when you're stuck in your carseat for long periods of time, when you need to do something you don't want to do.
What else? Oh, yes, you will eat nearly anything. You are the least picky child I've ever met. You love helping out around the house. You love figuring out how things go. You have a ready supply of odd jokes. You can't stand to see anyone unhappy. Your heart is endlessly tender and you are terrifically good-natured.
Boy, I don't understand how we got so lucky. Every day I thank God for loaning you to me. Every day I try to be better, to be the sort of mama you deserve. You've totally changed my life and its meaning. I adore you, my three-year-old.
Love,
Mama
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Letter Nine
Dear Luke,
Today you are at your Mimi's house while I'm working. She sent me this email.
Luke plays with wooden puzzle that reveals a picture for each letter that you remove:
Luke: O is for…Ahpetaht [This is the way you pronounce octopus.]!
D is for…Wubber Ducky!
N is for…Little eggs! [nest]
[removes the Z and sees a folded zipper]
S is for…THAT thing!
Mimi: That’s a Z, and it’s for Zipper.
Luke: Where do you put a zipper?
Mimi: On your clothes, so you can open and close them.
Luke: Oh.
Q is for…Birdie! [quail]
Lukie is for kisses.
xoxo
I love you, boy.
Always,
Mama
Today you are at your Mimi's house while I'm working. She sent me this email.
Luke plays with wooden puzzle that reveals a picture for each letter that you remove:
Luke: O is for…Ahpetaht [This is the way you pronounce octopus.]!
D is for…Wubber Ducky!
N is for…Little eggs! [nest]
[removes the Z and sees a folded zipper]
S is for…THAT thing!
Mimi: That’s a Z, and it’s for Zipper.
Luke: Where do you put a zipper?
Mimi: On your clothes, so you can open and close them.
Luke: Oh.
Q is for…Birdie! [quail]
Lukie is for kisses.
xoxo
I love you, boy.
Always,
Mama
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Letter Eight
Dear Luke,
What follows are snippets of recent conversation with you.
You, playing with a piece of spaghetti you've transferred from your bowl to the tray on your high chair:Look, Daddy! I'm playing with a snake!
Your dad: Okay, put it back in your bowl and eat it with your fork.
You: But... could I eat this one with my fingers?
Your dad: Okay. But after that one, you have to eat with your fork. You can't eat any more of it with your fingers. Okay?
You: Well... I can try not to.
***
You, pointing to the zipper on my jeans, in front of your dad's parents as I picked you up after work on Friday: Is that your pee-pee?
***
My young cousins, Aaron and Angelica: Luke, who do you like best? Her or me?/Luke, who do you like best, him or me?
You, very smoothly: I like Mimi [my mother] best. She's pretty.
***
You, running back into Mimi's house from the back yard: Mimi! I'm scared!
Mimi: What are you scared of?
You: I'm scared of the white man!
[I had to explain to Mimi that this is how you refer to the Jack-in-the-Box mascot, whose commercials you do not like.]
***
You, following a spectacular drum solo performed on an inverted hot chocolate tin with two large crayons: [Spoken as a growl] Aaawwwwwiiiiiight!!
***
You, interrupting a conversation between your dad and me: You know, when I was a kid...
Your dad and me: [Trying not to die of laughter]
Kiddo, you are hysterically funny even when you're not trying to be. We are so proud of you.
Love,
Mama
What follows are snippets of recent conversation with you.
You, playing with a piece of spaghetti you've transferred from your bowl to the tray on your high chair:Look, Daddy! I'm playing with a snake!
Your dad: Okay, put it back in your bowl and eat it with your fork.
You: But... could I eat this one with my fingers?
Your dad: Okay. But after that one, you have to eat with your fork. You can't eat any more of it with your fingers. Okay?
You: Well... I can try not to.
***
You, pointing to the zipper on my jeans, in front of your dad's parents as I picked you up after work on Friday: Is that your pee-pee?
***
My young cousins, Aaron and Angelica: Luke, who do you like best? Her or me?/Luke, who do you like best, him or me?
You, very smoothly: I like Mimi [my mother] best. She's pretty.
***
You, running back into Mimi's house from the back yard: Mimi! I'm scared!
Mimi: What are you scared of?
You: I'm scared of the white man!
[I had to explain to Mimi that this is how you refer to the Jack-in-the-Box mascot, whose commercials you do not like.]
***
You, following a spectacular drum solo performed on an inverted hot chocolate tin with two large crayons: [Spoken as a growl] Aaawwwwwiiiiiight!!
***
You, interrupting a conversation between your dad and me: You know, when I was a kid...
Your dad and me: [Trying not to die of laughter]
Kiddo, you are hysterically funny even when you're not trying to be. We are so proud of you.
Love,
Mama
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Letter Seven
Dear Luke,
It's been a little longer than two months since I've last written you a letter. Why, exactly? I keep turning that question over in my mind. Sometimes there is a kind of mechanism that seems to prevent me from examining too closely that which I hold precious. "Blinding fear" is probably a good way to describe it. Sometimes I am shut down by the very idea of writing down the things that you do and the way that my heart swells dangerously when you do them. It seems very backwards, doesn't it? Love is about opening oneself up and acting for others. Since you've been around I have learned a great deal about myself, and one of the things I've discovered, less than proudly, is how very terrified I am of loving those closest to me. I can do it as long as I don't think about it too much: a remnant of the notion of the thought of losing you sends me running, switches off my power like the button on a vaccuum cleaner. A clean break, until upon closer examination it turns out that having to say aloud "if I ever lost you" will make me dissolve into tears.
You're so small and so much wiser than I thought you would be. I am afraid of the mistakes I've already made, the mistakes I will continue to make. I want to be perfect for you. You deserve it, my sweet boy.
As I write this you and your dad have returned from a birthday party (a headache kept me away). You rushed in, arms straight up in the air, saying Mama! There were so many friends! Your very essence!
I have to sign off now. One of the favors you received at the party is a tiny soft soccer ball. Play patch, Mama! Play patch, Daddy! you keep saying. Catch? I ask. Yes! Play patch! you say.
So we will. Your dad and I will play patch with you.
Love,
Mama
It's been a little longer than two months since I've last written you a letter. Why, exactly? I keep turning that question over in my mind. Sometimes there is a kind of mechanism that seems to prevent me from examining too closely that which I hold precious. "Blinding fear" is probably a good way to describe it. Sometimes I am shut down by the very idea of writing down the things that you do and the way that my heart swells dangerously when you do them. It seems very backwards, doesn't it? Love is about opening oneself up and acting for others. Since you've been around I have learned a great deal about myself, and one of the things I've discovered, less than proudly, is how very terrified I am of loving those closest to me. I can do it as long as I don't think about it too much: a remnant of the notion of the thought of losing you sends me running, switches off my power like the button on a vaccuum cleaner. A clean break, until upon closer examination it turns out that having to say aloud "if I ever lost you" will make me dissolve into tears.
You're so small and so much wiser than I thought you would be. I am afraid of the mistakes I've already made, the mistakes I will continue to make. I want to be perfect for you. You deserve it, my sweet boy.
As I write this you and your dad have returned from a birthday party (a headache kept me away). You rushed in, arms straight up in the air, saying Mama! There were so many friends! Your very essence!
I have to sign off now. One of the favors you received at the party is a tiny soft soccer ball. Play patch, Mama! Play patch, Daddy! you keep saying. Catch? I ask. Yes! Play patch! you say.
So we will. Your dad and I will play patch with you.
Love,
Mama
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)