It's time to play catch up. I've learned A LOT since I last wrote to you, and we all know who's to blame for the lack of communication. Mommy has it in her head that she's "too busy" to do things like write, go to the gym, return phone calls during my waking hours, eat, sleep, or tackle any of those DIY toddler friendly projects on Pinterest. Slacker.
I'm a big girl now, so I've learned to make it through the day with just one nap, and on special days (like today) I forgo the nap altogether so I can get in a few more hours of whining and begging for cookies and frozen raspberries. (Frozen strawberries are also yummy, but they don't stain as well as raspberries do, and you know I like to leave my mark.) Speaking of which, I learned recently that not all markers are "washable," and even Magic Erasers can't get black marker off of a wall - or chalk off of accordion blinds. I also learned to rate toast-spreadable substances by stickiness. Peanut butter is better than non-dairy butter, but jam takes the cake. And since we're talking about cake, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I heard through the grape vine that you aren't eating enough carbs, and I want to help. All you have to do is develop an allergy to egg. Then wait a year for your blood work to show a decrease in the probability of an allergic reaction to egg and schedule a baked goods challenge with your allergist. The challenge is so named because you have to wait 20 minutes between bites of cake, and that, as you know, is quite a feat of self control. The first bites are stupidly tiny, even for a little kid, but after a few hours, you get to wolf down a significant piece of cake. Then comes the best part: the doctor prescribes baked goods to be consumed at least three times a week. Isn't that amazing? A doctor literally told me to eat cakes, bread, and muffins on a regular basis. Modern medicine sure is a marvel.
Enough food talk. Let's discuss academics. Having a teacher for a Mommy has its benefits, though I do worry about the future when I overhear her joking about homework in the summer. But I get ahead of myself. These days I'm mastering the sounds of all 26 letters in the alphabet. I like to sing about them, sometimes to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and sometimes in a never-ending refrain of Philip Glass-inspired atonal yelling. "A SAYS AH! B SAYS BUH! P SAYS PUH PUH PUH POPCORN!" Mommy and Daddy love it when I do that. I know because they show their appreciation with laughter and then furrowed brows and then entreaties to sing anything else, PLEASE.
I've been counting, too. I count fingers, toes, blocks, stickers, cars, people, and anything else that needs counting. I'm really great at one through five, and I'm strong up until 16, but I prefer to skip six and seven, an artistic choice that causes Mommy to call out, "SIX! SIX COMES AFTER FIVE!" I think she thinks I don't know that. I think she doesn't realize how hilarious it is when she gets so excited about six. I heard her tell her friend that she isn't getting enough six, so maybe that's the problem.
Indeed, I have accumulated a hefty bag of tricks in the last few months of toddlerhood, including, but in no way limited to, swinging from banisters, jumping on the couch, climbing into my parents' bed, wearing Mommy's high heels, jumping on my bed, leading endless rounds of Ring Around the Rosie, jumping on stairs, playing individual notes on the piano rather than smashing my hand down repeatedly, eating a peanut butter sandwich instead of just licking the peanut butter off the bread, eating lamb chops off the bone, searching the sky for the moon and stars, sorting by color, identifying and matching basic shapes (square, triangle, circle, oval, crescent, star, etc.), jumping on sand, announcing all nearby airplanes, helicopters, motorcycles, and trains, mimicking police sirens, jumping on laundry, talking on the phone (though Skype is more fun), and jumping in the pool.
I know how to kick, catch, and throw a ball, and I know that it's okay to throw a ball only if the person catching knows she is supposed to be catching a ball and isn't trying to stir pasta sauce on a hot stove. I also know that throwing other items is generally not allowed, even if I'm dancing passionately while shaking fistfuls of maracas, and one (or more likely, all) of which somehow slip from my grasp and go flying toward the heads of nearby babies. I argued the absence of intent on that one, but your daughter played her Mommy Card, and I got a mini-lecture on appropriate behavior and being careful and aware of my surroundings and something about impulse control, but I don't think she was talking about momentum change. Who knows how she comes up with this stuff? Sometimes I hear her talking with the other Mommies at the park, and I know for a fact that they share all sorts of embarrassing anecdotes. I mean, it's not a big deal that I peed on the floor eight inches from my Elmo potty, and I certainly don't see why Jordy's Mommy needs to know about such a minor indiscretion.
Though I could go on and on about my newfound talents and extensive vocabulary, I must admit that it's bedtime, and I can tell that Mommy and Daddy are exhausted. I'm not sure they'll even make it through all three scheduled bedtime stories - or the five extra books that I usually demand in an increasingly high pitched whine. Between you and me, those two are pushovers when it comes to negotiations past seven o'clock. It's like they're on autopilot.
Kicking it into high gear,
Zelda
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