So. When Kid #1 turned one, I started a tradition of sorts. Every year on the night before my kids' birthdays I send them a letter. Well, actually it's an email, because it's 2014 and my hand cramps up if I have to write anything longer than a grocery list. And, despite the fact that I had to lie about their birthdays to get them an email address, I believe that you're never too young for your own gmail account.
Anyway, the annual birthday email details the highlights from the past year in their life, chronicles their current likes and dislikes, lists their favorite playmates, movies, books and songs, and wraps up with some of my thoughts about who they're becoming and what I hope lies in store for them in the year to come.
My goal is to present each of my kids with their username and password on a milestone birthday or event - like on their sixteenth birthday right before they take the car out for a ride so they can read about how much I love them and then for God's sake maybe they will not text and drive or drink and drive or (if I'm lucky) even drive for that matter.
Or maybe I'll give the emails to them on their twenty-first birthday so they can read about how I hope they grow up to be successful yet caring young men and maybe these letters will make them think twice about doing those twenty-one tequila shots and molesting the sorority girl on the bar stool next to them.
Or maybe I will log into their accounts on their wedding day and hand them their smartphones right before they walk down the aisle so they can mentally note all of the hard work and energy that went into raising them and know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that no woman will ever love them the way their mother does.
Sorry future daughter-in-laws.
The thing is, what started out as a fun way to record my children's lives has, in the past six years, turned into one more thing I have to do when their birthday arrives, another chore that needs to be completed after I get to the goody bags that need to be stuffed, the treats that need to be brought to school, and before I am faced with the crumpled up wrapping paper that needs to be cleaned up and the thank-you notes that need to be written. I used to write The Birthday Email the night before Kid #1's birthday. Now, I'm lucky if it happens in the same month as the birthday.
And if you're Kid #3, forget it.
Yes, that's right. Kid #3 is officially 17 months old and I have not written him a single birthday email. He doesn't even have an email address. At first it was "I'll do it after we get back from our summer vacation." And then it was "I'll do it by the fourth of July." Pretty soon leaves were falling and I had yet to write a single word about what makes my baby boy so special and unique. I thought about faking it but emails have a date and time stamp that can't be changed. To lie and pretend that I'd written his first birthday email anywhere in the vicinity of his first birthday would require actually changing the date of his birthday. And if I'm too lazy to open a gmail account for him, you can bet I'm not going to waste my time photoshopping his birth certificate.
In the meantime, I read a letter on a mommy-blog where a mother was apologizing to her second child for all the ways she's failed him. It got me thinking about all the ways that Kid #3 has suffered from being the youngest of three boys in our family. I decided that instead of my traditional birthday letter to Kid #3, I will pen -er-type my own apology.
Dear Kid #3,
I'm sorry I ate sushi when I was pregnant with you.
When I was pregnant with Kid #1 I could barely even eat white rice at a Japanese restaurant, so sure was I that somewhow it had been cross contaminated by a knife that had been used to slice a piece of potentially salmonella-infected yellow tail.
When I was expecting Kid #2 I gave into my craving for cold cuts, but made sure that my turkey was thoroughly heated up in the toaster before consuming it.
But by the time it got to you, I was over it. I assumed the brie was pasteurized and even indulged in a champagne toast on New Year's.
I mean, it was the second trimester, all the important stuff was probably already decided.
It's not because I didn't care about your well-being. I still took my pre-natal vitamins (because who doesn't want nine months of shiny hair and long nails!?!) and I avoided second-hand smoke because, well, gross. But after two healthy pregnancies I realized that there are bigger, badder things out there than sashimi and gorgonzola. Things I have no control over, like my DNA preventing you from being a professional athlete and strangers with candy and kids on the playground who might pick on you because, well, some kids are just assholes.
And I realized that you were safer "in" than "out" and that a california roll was the least of our worries. Also it made me really happy, and in fact I credit sushi for your easygoing happy demeanor. Well, that and not going off my Zoloft for this pregnancy. Don't judge, you've met your brothers...
I'm sorry you don't have a baby book.
This kinda goes along with the fact that I am just now getting your birthday letter out and we're five months past your first birthday. The thing is I just don't have the time to keep track of what percentile your head is and when the nurse at the doctor's office asks me if I brought my baby book I feign forgetfulness and ask her to write it down so I can slip it in the book when I get home but in reality it ends up being smashed into my baby bag in between the goldfish crumbs and balled up tissues and thrown out three months later.
For the record, I did buy a book- I had every intention of not being that mom who doesn't do for the third kid what she did for the first two. But then life happened and the book sits empty in my nightstand waiting for me to decide if at this point I make up the stats or give it to some first time mom as a baby present.
The thing is, I think you're amazing, and really really cute (even though I know by now that most babies either look like aliens or old men but we moms are biologically programmed to think ours is the next Gerber baby so that we don't throw you out the window after the fifth straight hour of colic-induced screaming) and I've got an iphone and Groovebooks full of photos to prove that, but I just can't see how bringing up the fact that you got your third tooth when you were eight months old is going to prove that I care.
Also, you're a dude, and I doubt you're ever going to throw it in my face that your brothers had baby books and you didn't. Your wife might, but if that's the kind of thing she's worrying about then her and I probably already have bigger issues.
I'm sorry your toys suck.
Last summer when we went on a family vacation to North Carolina I packed the car with ipads, dvd's, pool toys, sand toys, books, and action figures...for your brothers. When asked what I brought for you to play with by the pool I blanked, and handed you a water bottle. You fucking loved that thing. You poured it out. You filled it back up. You took the cap on and off about a hundred times. It was twenty minutes of entertainment, and in thirteen-month-old time that's like a solid week of fun.
I think this is why you prefer the measuring cups and mixing bowls in the kitchen to the wall-to-wall baby toys that line our basement. Or maybe it's because most of those toys have been left out in the rain or their batteries died three years ago and I'm too lazy-er, busy-to get out the screwdriver and change them so they don't actually work anymore. And let's be honest I'm not in a hurry to get those things working - do you know how freaky it is when at three in the morning you're awoken by a stuffed dog demanding that you "Come play with me!"???
Last week we were at Target (shocking, I know, as you're probably currently lobbying to have your rehearsal dinner there as it holds more childhood memories for you than the playground) and all of a sudden you just had to get out of the cart. I was puzzled, as we were nowhere near the toy department. We were in the wastebasket aisle.
Yes, that's right. Kid #3 is officially 17 months old and I have not written him a single birthday email. He doesn't even have an email address. At first it was "I'll do it after we get back from our summer vacation." And then it was "I'll do it by the fourth of July." Pretty soon leaves were falling and I had yet to write a single word about what makes my baby boy so special and unique. I thought about faking it but emails have a date and time stamp that can't be changed. To lie and pretend that I'd written his first birthday email anywhere in the vicinity of his first birthday would require actually changing the date of his birthday. And if I'm too lazy to open a gmail account for him, you can bet I'm not going to waste my time photoshopping his birth certificate.
In the meantime, I read a letter on a mommy-blog where a mother was apologizing to her second child for all the ways she's failed him. It got me thinking about all the ways that Kid #3 has suffered from being the youngest of three boys in our family. I decided that instead of my traditional birthday letter to Kid #3, I will pen -er-type my own apology.
Dear Kid #3,
I'm sorry I ate sushi when I was pregnant with you.
When I was pregnant with Kid #1 I could barely even eat white rice at a Japanese restaurant, so sure was I that somewhow it had been cross contaminated by a knife that had been used to slice a piece of potentially salmonella-infected yellow tail.
When I was expecting Kid #2 I gave into my craving for cold cuts, but made sure that my turkey was thoroughly heated up in the toaster before consuming it.
But by the time it got to you, I was over it. I assumed the brie was pasteurized and even indulged in a champagne toast on New Year's.
I mean, it was the second trimester, all the important stuff was probably already decided.
It's not because I didn't care about your well-being. I still took my pre-natal vitamins (because who doesn't want nine months of shiny hair and long nails!?!) and I avoided second-hand smoke because, well, gross. But after two healthy pregnancies I realized that there are bigger, badder things out there than sashimi and gorgonzola. Things I have no control over, like my DNA preventing you from being a professional athlete and strangers with candy and kids on the playground who might pick on you because, well, some kids are just assholes.
And I realized that you were safer "in" than "out" and that a california roll was the least of our worries. Also it made me really happy, and in fact I credit sushi for your easygoing happy demeanor. Well, that and not going off my Zoloft for this pregnancy. Don't judge, you've met your brothers...
I'm sorry you don't have a baby book.
This kinda goes along with the fact that I am just now getting your birthday letter out and we're five months past your first birthday. The thing is I just don't have the time to keep track of what percentile your head is and when the nurse at the doctor's office asks me if I brought my baby book I feign forgetfulness and ask her to write it down so I can slip it in the book when I get home but in reality it ends up being smashed into my baby bag in between the goldfish crumbs and balled up tissues and thrown out three months later.
For the record, I did buy a book- I had every intention of not being that mom who doesn't do for the third kid what she did for the first two. But then life happened and the book sits empty in my nightstand waiting for me to decide if at this point I make up the stats or give it to some first time mom as a baby present.
The thing is, I think you're amazing, and really really cute (even though I know by now that most babies either look like aliens or old men but we moms are biologically programmed to think ours is the next Gerber baby so that we don't throw you out the window after the fifth straight hour of colic-induced screaming) and I've got an iphone and Groovebooks full of photos to prove that, but I just can't see how bringing up the fact that you got your third tooth when you were eight months old is going to prove that I care.
Also, you're a dude, and I doubt you're ever going to throw it in my face that your brothers had baby books and you didn't. Your wife might, but if that's the kind of thing she's worrying about then her and I probably already have bigger issues.
I'm sorry your toys suck.
Last summer when we went on a family vacation to North Carolina I packed the car with ipads, dvd's, pool toys, sand toys, books, and action figures...for your brothers. When asked what I brought for you to play with by the pool I blanked, and handed you a water bottle. You fucking loved that thing. You poured it out. You filled it back up. You took the cap on and off about a hundred times. It was twenty minutes of entertainment, and in thirteen-month-old time that's like a solid week of fun.
I think this is why you prefer the measuring cups and mixing bowls in the kitchen to the wall-to-wall baby toys that line our basement. Or maybe it's because most of those toys have been left out in the rain or their batteries died three years ago and I'm too lazy-er, busy-to get out the screwdriver and change them so they don't actually work anymore. And let's be honest I'm not in a hurry to get those things working - do you know how freaky it is when at three in the morning you're awoken by a stuffed dog demanding that you "Come play with me!"???
As soon as I put you on the ground where you exclaimed "whoa!" and went to town moving the garbage cans from one side of the store to the other, just as you spend hours moving our wastebaskets from one part of the house to the other at home. I'm sure the Target employees appreciated it as much as I do.
Bottom line- being the third kid has made you resourceful. You teethed on Tupperware and stack k-cups instead of baby blocks. The other day I saw you very carefully carrying a measuring cup filled with water you'd scooped out of the toilet over to the kitchen sink where you poured it down the drain without spilling a drop.
That's some Montessori shit right there if you ask me.
I'm sorry you don't have a playgroup
When Kid #1 was a baby he had not one, but two playgroups. This is partly because being a stay at home mom with one kid was incredibly lonely and I needed girlfriends like I've never needed girlfriends before (to be honest most girls kind of scare me). It was also because I had no clue what I was doing and spending several hours a week with other new moms talking about sleep training and diaper brands and nipple confusion (our babies', our husbands' and our own) and how none of us felt like we had any clue what we were doing was vital to my survival, not to mention my sanity. When Kid #2 came along most of the other moms from Kid #1's playgroup were also having their second child, so by default Kid #1's playgroup became his too.
Now Kid #1 and Kid #2 are in school five days a week. I could spend one or two mornings a week going to Little Gym classes or joining a playgroup, or I could go to my own gym and work off the five pounds per kid I've put on in the last six years (please nobody do the math) while you play in the rec center's babysitting room (which you love, btw, just sayin'). Then we could go to Target and I could spend money on stuff I don't need and you could play with the wastebaskets.
That's some Montessori shit right there if you ask me.
I'm sorry you don't have a playgroup
When Kid #1 was a baby he had not one, but two playgroups. This is partly because being a stay at home mom with one kid was incredibly lonely and I needed girlfriends like I've never needed girlfriends before (to be honest most girls kind of scare me). It was also because I had no clue what I was doing and spending several hours a week with other new moms talking about sleep training and diaper brands and nipple confusion (our babies', our husbands' and our own) and how none of us felt like we had any clue what we were doing was vital to my survival, not to mention my sanity. When Kid #2 came along most of the other moms from Kid #1's playgroup were also having their second child, so by default Kid #1's playgroup became his too.
Now Kid #1 and Kid #2 are in school five days a week. I could spend one or two mornings a week going to Little Gym classes or joining a playgroup, or I could go to my own gym and work off the five pounds per kid I've put on in the last six years (please nobody do the math) while you play in the rec center's babysitting room (which you love, btw, just sayin'). Then we could go to Target and I could spend money on stuff I don't need and you could play with the wastebaskets.
Everybody wins.
Because here's the thing - at this point all my mom-friends from Kid #1 and #2 either decided not to have a third kid and their kids are both in school all day or they did have a third kid too but would rather work out and go to Target than talk about diaper rash.
I tried - I did take you to one playgroup and you really seemed to enjoy it. There was a table of kid friendly snacks that you thought was your own personal all you can eat buffet. However the following week your brother needed to get his cast off, and the week after that your other brother was getting his tonsils out and then I decided to sign up for TRX and it happens to be on the same day as baby playgroup and basically this is my last chance to get my abs back in after you busted out of them.
You owe me this.
And look at it this way - instead of having your friends predetermined like your brothers' were, you actually get to decide if the kid licking the toys next to you at the Kid Zone at the gym is worth your time or if you'd rather play with the booger-eater at the train table.
I have given you the chance to control your own destiny. Although I do retain the power to veto the booger eater.
Because here's the thing - at this point all my mom-friends from Kid #1 and #2 either decided not to have a third kid and their kids are both in school all day or they did have a third kid too but would rather work out and go to Target than talk about diaper rash.
I tried - I did take you to one playgroup and you really seemed to enjoy it. There was a table of kid friendly snacks that you thought was your own personal all you can eat buffet. However the following week your brother needed to get his cast off, and the week after that your other brother was getting his tonsils out and then I decided to sign up for TRX and it happens to be on the same day as baby playgroup and basically this is my last chance to get my abs back in after you busted out of them.
You owe me this.
And look at it this way - instead of having your friends predetermined like your brothers' were, you actually get to decide if the kid licking the toys next to you at the Kid Zone at the gym is worth your time or if you'd rather play with the booger-eater at the train table.
I have given you the chance to control your own destiny. Although I do retain the power to veto the booger eater.
I'm sorry your brothers are your role models
Yesterday I found your four year old brother spraying you with a can of PAM. In the past week you've been sat on, tackled, shoved out of the way and blamed for the puddle of pee that caused your six year-old brother to slip and fall on the bathroom floor (it almost definitely was your pee, but still...). Last summer you were nominated for the "sand bucket challenge" so many times that when you see a sandbox you basically cut to the chase and start pouring sand on your head yourself. I'm pretty sure your first laugh out loud was after one of your brothers burped in your face.
It's like I'm raising you in a frat house.
On the plus side, you're the toughest one-and-a-half year old I know. You get knocked down, but you can always get up (My God, whatever happened to Chumbawumba?). Last weekend at Kid #1's consecration ceremony you turned a brotherly hug into an opportunity to pants Kid #1.
I'm pretty sure you're gonna make it of this OK.
I'm sorry I can't stop holding you
Last night you had a fever at bedtime. It was probably teeth - since I don't write stuff down I'm not sure how many you have but you'd been cranky all day and I'm pretty sure 17 months is too early to blame it on adolescent moodiness or a drug problem. After we read (OK, chewed on) some books, I sat there in the glider and started to rock you in the dark like I used to when you were an infant.
It's been so long since I've done that. Partly because most nights I need to get back to helping your brother with his homework at bedtime so your good-night routine is not much more than a quick story and a kiss on your head as I drop you into your crib. It's also because after two kids who needed to be rocked to sleep for far too long I get how bad habits are formed and I know how hard they are to break. But that night I sat there, rocking you, feeling your warmth and your weight, pressing my cheek against your silky hair.
That's when it hit me - you're not only my third baby, you're my last one. When Kid #1 and Kid #2 were your age, I was already thinking about having another child. I rocked them and held them and smelled their heads (am I the only one totally obsessed with the smell of a baby's head? I'm convinced that dropping bombs that can release that smell into the atmosphere would end all wars forever...) but in the back of my mind I was thinking about getting them into big boy beds and big boy underpants before the next baby arrived and needed me to hold him and change his diaper.
So while part of me can't wait for you to be able to keep up with your brothers, another part of me wants to keep you my baby forever because you growing up means that my baby years are over...no more sweet baby head smell, no more pudgy thighs wrapped around my waist, no more of the heaviness that can only mean that the baby in my lap has finally fallen fast asleep in the chair.
Which you totally weren't doing.
Instead you were looking up at me as if to say "What are we doing Mom? This isn't our thing. You put me down 'drowsy but awake' like all those sleep-training books told you to do."
But I held on tight. I wanted to rock my last baby to sleep because before I know it he won't fit in my lap, won't press his cheek against my chest, won't need me the way that babies need their mommies.
And then Kid #2 yelled "Mom I couldn't get my pants off fast enough and I peed all over the floor!" and I reluctantly deposited you into your crib and went to find the Lysol.
So you see, Kid #3, you might not have the envelope of hair from your first haircut - and by the way I get that that's something that I should be sentimental about but I kind of resent the hair technician staring at me like I was an abusive parent when I declined her offer to save me some clipped curls for the baby book - but you have other things that your brothers didn't have.
You have a mother who, while being overwhelmed and overtired and overbooked, knows what's important (time to play and explore) and what's not (signing you up for every baby and toddler activity offered by the department of recreation).
You have brothers that might set a good example and protect you, or at the very least brothers whose mistakes you can learn from that you can count on to give you a good laugh.
You have parents who love you but who won't hover over you - as much as they might want to - because they know that they can't protect you from getting hurt but please baby, know that they will always be there to pick you up and hold you tight when you are.
Happy seventeen months!
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