Dear Jack,

Tomorrow you will be 27 months old. That's right, I'm a day early. We're leaving for Florida tomorrow and I don't want to miss this month's letter. At 27 months, you're a bolt of lightning! A ray of sunshine! A rumbling storm cloud! A beautiful tempest, my sweet boy. Over the last month you have built an even larger vocabulary and started using those words in most hilarious ways. My favorite lately is the exaggerated "welllllll..." that you use to answer almost any question. "Would you like milk or juice?" "Well...." It's part showmanship, part pensiveness and I just love it.

You sing to yourself (and me) all the time these days. Your songs are hybrids of familiar tunes and your own lyrics, or completely your own creations. Your voice is clear and you can carry a tune. Music is in you. I hope we can continue to develop your love of it so it can become a comfort and a craft for you. We took a three-week music class this month, and you loved it. You danced wildly, drummed with abandon, and learned the class songs quickly. You could get distracted by, say, a broom in the classroom, but when the instruments came out, your focus would narrow. I look forward to enrolling you in a longer course next year.

The imaginative play that emerged over the last few months continues to evolve. You drew lots of straight lines with crayons, starting at the bottom of the page and quickly moving up, saying "I maked an elevator!" I overheard you in your carseat the other day, your hands "fighting" with each other. "I'm gonna get you!" "No, you are NOT!" This evolution has led to a few tall tales, as well. We were playing in the backyard one afternoon, and you shreiked loudly. I asked you what was the matter, and this is what you said: "A bee flew me! And BAM! He bammed me and I fall down and BAM!" I don't know if I can adequately describe the facial expressions and gestures that accompanied this story, but suffice it to say it involved smacking your own face. I would have believed you if I hadn't been watching to see that nothing at all had happened. That same bee has "BAMmed" you a few times since then.

In telling stories of what's happened in your life, you have developed a few new words - yestermorn, yesternight, and yesterweek. For this lover of words and their origins, there is no greater gift than to watch you develop language and do it creatively. My little Shakespeare. Your expressive face makes talking to you a lot of fun. You've started really stopping to think through your sentences. It can take you a while to get out your thought, but it's so often worth the wait. You haven't gotten to the "why" stage, but you do ask "what happened?" all. the. time. Your newest question is "What does it mean?" You often ask "What are you cooking for me, Mommy?" or "What are those birds going to do for me, Mommy?" This from the budding narcissist who pronounced to me in the car one day "Look at the beautiful trees I made!"


This wouldn't be an accurate account of you at 27 months if I did not at least bring up the fact that you have become extremely difficult to comfort at times, and equally bullheaded. You've always been intense. You've never been easy to distract. But this month you've started saying, about a clean diaper, perhaps, "I will NEVER do it. I will NOT do it." You're so TWO. Coupled with your physical strength, it's been challenging to parent you at times. I've started "counting." The old don't-let-me-get-to-three routine. It's not something that I planned to do, but it seems that just the threat of time-out can garner a little cooperation. I want to find a way to help you be motivated by something other than a threat, but for now, it seems like the only thing that works to get you moving. You are sprinting by the count of "two" and you profusely apologize if I have counted even that far. Parenting isn't pretty sometimes.

You seem to experience new emotions (and perhaps a little empathy) when you've accidentally hurt one of us. You apologize and pat our backs. You geniunely, and without prompting, say "I love you." Yesterday, when your dad came home from work, you stopped swinging and sat in his lap to say "I miss you, Daddy." I'm pretty sure I heard his hard heart cracking in there somewhere. One afternoon as I changed your clothes, you pulled all three of us together, and with your nose buried in our knees said "Family hug." This sweet side makes it all so much easier.

You're a cool kid. There's no other way to say it.
My heart grows all the time to contain the love I have for you. Even then it spills over. Being your mom helps me love everyone even more.

Mama

p.s. Recently you had your first stomach virus. This event will forevermore be referred to as Rush Week. It sure felt like hazing and initiation. So, I'm really a mom now, I guess. You are ridiculously sweet when you are sick, I discovered. So clingy and quiet and pitiful. I knew you had turned the corner when you started demanding things again. :) I'm glad you're better.