Dear Sandrine,
Tomorrow you turn forty-six months old. Also, all of the pants we bought you last fall no longer fit. ALL OF THEM. That we bought you less than FIVE MONTHS AGO. They all look like they belong to Michael Jackson, with their three inches shorter than the top of your sneakers. This, coupled with you carrying some holiday weight, meant i had to rummage around the boxes labelled “4-5 YEARS” for the second-hand clothing great friends have sent me, boxes which i remember stashing away a few years ago, thinking that it’d take such a long time before you’d get so big to wear their contents.
When i asked you to try on these sequined jeans & flowing dresses, those sparkly tees & hot pink skirts, your eyes lit up as if Christmas hadn’t ended at all. Each time you slipped into something new, you’d grin & tell me that you had long legs, now that you’d soon be turning 4 years old. It’s a good thing you eat all your vegetables & fruits, you’d added, because now your bones & muscles are tall, almost as tall as mum. For the record, you’ve still got a long way to go pinotte before outgrowing me, because there is no authority left in a parent when they have to look up to their kids to discipline them.
Other than growing, you’ve been hoarding again. All of your stuffed toys that you had put away under the stairs a few months ago magically found their way back into your bed. In fact, this time around, there is hardly any room at all in your bed for you. Many times i have sat down on your bed for a goodnight kiss only to hear something crunch underneath my butt. All this scrimping could have everything to do with the fact that i did the exact same thing as a kid. Something about having everyone’s undivided attention, even when sleeping. PS : On the odd night, you’ll still shove a doll under your shirt, & i still don’t know why, exactly.
This month you’re showing more & more signs of your independence. For instance, you get up to pee in the middle of the night without calling for us first. This has never happened before, not once. When i asked you about it the next morning, you just shrugged, as if it was no big deal. NO BIG DEAL ? You’re this close to making us some hot-dogs !
You also love to sneak up on me & scare the begeezus out of me just because you can. i scare so easily, because i’m very concentrated on whatever task i’m doing, whether it’s changing a poopy diaper or making coffee. You know this quite well & derive immeasurable amounts of satisfaction in hearing me whoop & smudging poop on my forearms or dropping coffee beans to the floor.
Have i mentionned how much you adore your kid brother ? You bust your britches trying to make him laugh, yelling NATHAN ! NATHAN ! & kissing the top of his head. His reaction is so over-the-top hilarious that it astounds me how much you feed off one another, the breadth of your love is gargantuan. i tried preparing you for a different outcome five years from now, how you’ll probably scream at him to get out of your room or come bawling to me because he won’t stop hitting you. There was no fazing you. You giggled at such idiosyncrasies, totally putting on a front about not believing me, but when i turned my head away, i heard you whisper to your brother “Don’t hit me when you get older, all right Nathan ?”
i beam with pride at being your mum. Can i get gushy about the extent to which you change my world ? i love that you sing when we’re out walking together, or the way you eat your Smarties by colour. You’re so good at remembering details, at writing the alphabet, at taking care of your babies. i especially love it when you rush to sleep in our bed in the mornings, squeezing your little body between your dad & i. One morning in particular i brushed a wisp of hair out of your eyes while you looked at me sweetly, only to have you brush aside one of my own wisps of hair. i had a hard time breathing & was overcome with paralysis. That’s the type of thing you spend your whole life hoping for.
Love,
Mum
