Dear Connor,
Your dad and I are worried that we might forget some of the cute, sweet, and bizarre things you are doing right now. Here is part one of what I imagine will be a long-repeated subject:
*Every time you go to bed, you tell us you are "hiding." You pull all of your covers above your head, then you fall asleep. One of us has to go in and uncover you later; by the time we do, you are snoring but very sweaty.
*You copy us by calling your sister "Aida-Bean!" It's either this or "Baby Aida;" so far, it really hasn't been just "Aida." In the same way, you have never called your cousin simply "Ainsley." It started out "Aeson" (you had a preschool friend named Aeson), then "Ain-sen," and now "Ainsey May."
*Everything you might do in the bathroom is "pooping." You tell us that "the poops are coming!" You've also told us you want to poop in the shower (we're pretty sure you meant "pee in the shower." Your dad taught you that.).
We'll keep 'em coming. Love you lots, Connor.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
You're a big brother!
Dear Connor,
The post says it all, doesn't it? You're a big brother today!
Last night, I had a feeling that your sister was on her way. We were at Grammy and Pop's house celebrating Uncle Ian's birthday a couple of days early, and I just wasn't feeling quite right. You weren't either, frankly. You were a bit clingy and whiny, not your usual bubbly self. You were still great, just a little out of sorts. To be honest, your attitude was one of the things that told me that this was for real. I've been very apprehensive about turning our one-child household into a two-child household, and in the last week I have been feeling particularly sad about losing my one-on-one time with you.
I think I might have been wrong to be worried for you. You have been handling all of these new changes with flexibility and an open-mindedness that I would never expect from a two-year-old. You stayed at Grammy and Pop's house the night that Aida was born; you slept in a room you had never slept in before, and there was no power, so you couldn't enjoy bath or storytime in the way you usually do there. When you got to the hospital to vist us, you were all smiles. Right away you gave me a big hug and kiss; there was no anger that I hadn't been with you overnight, and you didn't resent your sister who was sitting on my lap. You sometimes wanted to leave the room to go on a walk, and you sometimes just wanted to sit and snuggle with me, with your dad, and with your sister.
I cannot wait to see how the next week or so goes--I will keep you posted. I love you, buddy.
The post says it all, doesn't it? You're a big brother today!
Last night, I had a feeling that your sister was on her way. We were at Grammy and Pop's house celebrating Uncle Ian's birthday a couple of days early, and I just wasn't feeling quite right. You weren't either, frankly. You were a bit clingy and whiny, not your usual bubbly self. You were still great, just a little out of sorts. To be honest, your attitude was one of the things that told me that this was for real. I've been very apprehensive about turning our one-child household into a two-child household, and in the last week I have been feeling particularly sad about losing my one-on-one time with you.
I think I might have been wrong to be worried for you. You have been handling all of these new changes with flexibility and an open-mindedness that I would never expect from a two-year-old. You stayed at Grammy and Pop's house the night that Aida was born; you slept in a room you had never slept in before, and there was no power, so you couldn't enjoy bath or storytime in the way you usually do there. When you got to the hospital to vist us, you were all smiles. Right away you gave me a big hug and kiss; there was no anger that I hadn't been with you overnight, and you didn't resent your sister who was sitting on my lap. You sometimes wanted to leave the room to go on a walk, and you sometimes just wanted to sit and snuggle with me, with your dad, and with your sister.
I cannot wait to see how the next week or so goes--I will keep you posted. I love you, buddy.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Connor's special day
Dear Connor,
Today you had a "special day" with your Dad and me. There is an episode of Dora the Explorer called "Boots' Special Day" (if you don't remember Boots, he is Dora's boots-wearing monkey sidekick). Anyway, there's a song that Dora and Boots sing. It goes like this:
It's someone's special day,
Someone's special day....
Who is the special one
Whose day will be lots of fun?
And, of course, we changed the words to "It's Connor's special day." We were very excited for today; we've been pumping you up for in for about a week. The plan was to go to an early showing of Cars 2 followed by lunch at a fun place and then, if you were up for it, picking out a Cars 2 toy. Cars is by far your favorite cartoon; I hope that you remember it as you read this. It's the story of Lightning McQueen (the world's fastest racing machine) and his journey of discovery in "hillbilly hell," also known as Radiator Springs, where he meets all kinds of new cars, including Mater the tow truck (your ultimate favorite). You have picked out, purchased and read a Cars 2 book; your sheets are Cars 2; we've watched trailer after trailer online, you know the new locations, the new characters....
And you woke up a little sick. After going to bed late--around 9:15--and sleeping in (you woke up singing "The Wheels on the Bus"), you woke up happy, but a little fussy. You watched a T.V. show, got out your toolbox to fix some things around the house (hammering featured heavily), wrestled with your dad, and danced to a favorite CD. We could tell that you weren't 100%, and if we knew that we could take you next week--with your sister on the way, we're not making many plans--we would have. But we were desperate to have this day for you, so we pushed ahead and took you to the 9:30 A.M. showing of the movie.
This might have been a mistake. As soon as you saw the theater, you buried your head in my shoulder and said, "I go home." We explained where we were going and what we would see; you still didn't want to go. We paid our $15 for the tickets; you still asked to go home. We offered you popcorn, candy; you wanted milk. Your dad walked you around the lobby until the movie began and, luckily for us, you saw Buzz and Woody from the short before the film and sat happily. When the movie began and the cars began to race, you even smiled. You wanted to go on a walk every 15 minutes or so, and we did eventually get some popcorn, which you ate one kernel at a time, continuously, for the final 30 minutes of the movie we stayed for. We made it for a total of an hour--hugely impressive, Connor--and I had to look up the end of the movie online (I was right; the guy making the alternative fuel was the ultimate baddie).
Lunch was not much more successful. You're usually excellent out at restaurants, but you were cranky, clingy, and just wanted to leave. We didn't blame you. You were a little sick, and we had forced you to go out when you would have been happier at home, fixing things and dancing. Your dad and I wanted to write to you about this day because we will not remember it as a fussy day for you, but as a truly special day that we got to spend with you. You loved the movie when you could, and you were sunny and giggly and happy when we got home.
Sometimes I have a really hard time thinking that these days are your last as an only child. Your dad and I are both the oldest, and although we don't remember it, we know that we did not transition well from being only children to being older siblings. I know that you will shine as a big brother, and I know that you will have days of jealousy and resentment. I hope that I can convince you that you will always mean the world to your father and I; that nobody will ever outshine you in our eyes. These last couple of years have been the most special time, and it kills me that you won't remember them. Know that we wanted to make your life filled with special days, and we will do our best to keep it up when we are a family of four.
Today you had a "special day" with your Dad and me. There is an episode of Dora the Explorer called "Boots' Special Day" (if you don't remember Boots, he is Dora's boots-wearing monkey sidekick). Anyway, there's a song that Dora and Boots sing. It goes like this:
It's someone's special day,
Someone's special day....
Who is the special one
Whose day will be lots of fun?
And, of course, we changed the words to "It's Connor's special day." We were very excited for today; we've been pumping you up for in for about a week. The plan was to go to an early showing of Cars 2 followed by lunch at a fun place and then, if you were up for it, picking out a Cars 2 toy. Cars is by far your favorite cartoon; I hope that you remember it as you read this. It's the story of Lightning McQueen (the world's fastest racing machine) and his journey of discovery in "hillbilly hell," also known as Radiator Springs, where he meets all kinds of new cars, including Mater the tow truck (your ultimate favorite). You have picked out, purchased and read a Cars 2 book; your sheets are Cars 2; we've watched trailer after trailer online, you know the new locations, the new characters....
And you woke up a little sick. After going to bed late--around 9:15--and sleeping in (you woke up singing "The Wheels on the Bus"), you woke up happy, but a little fussy. You watched a T.V. show, got out your toolbox to fix some things around the house (hammering featured heavily), wrestled with your dad, and danced to a favorite CD. We could tell that you weren't 100%, and if we knew that we could take you next week--with your sister on the way, we're not making many plans--we would have. But we were desperate to have this day for you, so we pushed ahead and took you to the 9:30 A.M. showing of the movie.
This might have been a mistake. As soon as you saw the theater, you buried your head in my shoulder and said, "I go home." We explained where we were going and what we would see; you still didn't want to go. We paid our $15 for the tickets; you still asked to go home. We offered you popcorn, candy; you wanted milk. Your dad walked you around the lobby until the movie began and, luckily for us, you saw Buzz and Woody from the short before the film and sat happily. When the movie began and the cars began to race, you even smiled. You wanted to go on a walk every 15 minutes or so, and we did eventually get some popcorn, which you ate one kernel at a time, continuously, for the final 30 minutes of the movie we stayed for. We made it for a total of an hour--hugely impressive, Connor--and I had to look up the end of the movie online (I was right; the guy making the alternative fuel was the ultimate baddie).
Lunch was not much more successful. You're usually excellent out at restaurants, but you were cranky, clingy, and just wanted to leave. We didn't blame you. You were a little sick, and we had forced you to go out when you would have been happier at home, fixing things and dancing. Your dad and I wanted to write to you about this day because we will not remember it as a fussy day for you, but as a truly special day that we got to spend with you. You loved the movie when you could, and you were sunny and giggly and happy when we got home.
Sometimes I have a really hard time thinking that these days are your last as an only child. Your dad and I are both the oldest, and although we don't remember it, we know that we did not transition well from being only children to being older siblings. I know that you will shine as a big brother, and I know that you will have days of jealousy and resentment. I hope that I can convince you that you will always mean the world to your father and I; that nobody will ever outshine you in our eyes. These last couple of years have been the most special time, and it kills me that you won't remember them. Know that we wanted to make your life filled with special days, and we will do our best to keep it up when we are a family of four.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Memorial Day
Dear Connor,
As I write this, you are sleeping in the next room at Grammy and Pop's "Turtle house;" the cabin at Turtle Lake. I don't know exactly what the future holds for our family, but I am fairly certain that you will spend much time in this house. When you finally read this, I think you will be so familiar with the cabins Up North that you will picture these rooms without meaning to. That's my hope.
Anyway, although this was not your first time up here--we've been here a handful of times since you were born--this is certainly the first time you were aware of your surroundings in a new way. We were able to talk it up before you came, and you might not have understood exactly where we were going, but you knew that when you got here, it would be to see Grammy and Pop, and the boats, and the fish.
You're struggling a little bit right now between being a big boy and being a baby. With your sister due to arrive in about six weeks, both your dad and I understand that this is the last bit of time you have with just us (trust us, we get it: both of us told our parents to take Aunt Becky and Uncle Eric, respectively, back to the hospital after a few days). So we weren't terribly surprised when you asked to sleep in the baby crib that is set up for Louise. We were surprised when you stayed in it for a three hour nap. You're also pushing your limits as a "big boy"--you're starting to understand that you don't really have to do everything we ask (tell) you to do, and it's putting you in time out a lot. Listening and following directions is the biggest point of contention between the three of us right now. When you read your favorite book, Blankie, and got to the part when your baby had a time out, you told us gravely that the "baby no listen his Mommy Daddy."
This was a weekend of new adventures, including tramping through the "forest" between the two cabins (how deliciously terrifying), and playing in the tent with Grammy. Uncle Joey showed you how to use the spray nozzle on the hose, and you promptly nailed your father with a heavy stream of water directly in the crotch. I laughed so hard that I ran into a chair and bruised my ankle.
I hope that by the time you read this, these are new memories that I gave to you. I hope that you have so many memories of Turtle Lake that you think there wasn't a first time; you had simply always been there. In a way that's true. But although you were there before this trip, this is the one I will remember as your first. You created a space for yourself up here, and when we come back later in the summer, I expect that you will remember it, perhaps even give a brief tour to your sister before running off to find your fishing pole.
As I write this, you are sleeping in the next room at Grammy and Pop's "Turtle house;" the cabin at Turtle Lake. I don't know exactly what the future holds for our family, but I am fairly certain that you will spend much time in this house. When you finally read this, I think you will be so familiar with the cabins Up North that you will picture these rooms without meaning to. That's my hope.
Anyway, although this was not your first time up here--we've been here a handful of times since you were born--this is certainly the first time you were aware of your surroundings in a new way. We were able to talk it up before you came, and you might not have understood exactly where we were going, but you knew that when you got here, it would be to see Grammy and Pop, and the boats, and the fish.
Baiting the hook with Pop.
The biggest plate of "kid spaghetti" I have ever seen. You made it through half.
Naptime in the baby crib!
This was a weekend of new adventures, including tramping through the "forest" between the two cabins (how deliciously terrifying), and playing in the tent with Grammy. Uncle Joey showed you how to use the spray nozzle on the hose, and you promptly nailed your father with a heavy stream of water directly in the crotch. I laughed so hard that I ran into a chair and bruised my ankle.
You and your dad were playing in the rocks by the lake when you fell in.
You're stoic; you laughed it off.
I hope that by the time you read this, these are new memories that I gave to you. I hope that you have so many memories of Turtle Lake that you think there wasn't a first time; you had simply always been there. In a way that's true. But although you were there before this trip, this is the one I will remember as your first. You created a space for yourself up here, and when we come back later in the summer, I expect that you will remember it, perhaps even give a brief tour to your sister before running off to find your fishing pole.
Great Wolf Escape
Dear Connor,
Yesterday you and I made our first summer trip to the zoo. I wasn't sure how it would be--last year, we had a pretty solid routine of seeing the African Forest trail, then the Farm, then the splash pad followed by lunch at the Russian Coast food stand. This year, since I don't have a job for the fall, we're trying to save some money so I packed a lunch. And you have opinions, kiddo. Big opinions. You wanted to see the "ghosts" (goats) first. You also wanted to see a lion (which we don't have at our zoo), but you did not want to see a tiger (too scary). (We did see the tiger; he ran towards you and you jumped and clapped and weren't scared at all.)
So we went to see the goats at the Family Farm, the most remote location in the zoo. On the way we stopped at a playground, the tiger den, the moose and caribou pens (you later said that your favorite animal was the moose), and then a second playground.
Here's where it gets interesting.
We were playing in the playground, and I was getting very irritated with all of the big kids who were coming in and tackling each other, getting in the way of you littler guys. So when a boy came tearing into the playground screaming, I was annoyed at first. More big kids? Come on, let the little ones just play! Then I saw his face. He was genuinely terrified. And when I looked to see what had scared him so much, I understood: a Mexican grey wolf was coming up from behind him. Nothing malicious, just cantering behind on his way to freedom. My first instinct was to point out to you that there was a wolf; then I came to my senses and pulled you into the bathroom, away from the wolf and whatever might happen next. When we emerged, the wolf had gone down another trail, to liberate some friends, I would imagine, and we headed to the farm's grain elevator, where we were kept for 10 minutes until the wolf had been...well, until the wolf had been put down, sadly. But you and I didn't know that, and we sang "Old McDonald," planned out the animals we would see, and learned about soy beans and sugar beets.
Yesterday you and I made our first summer trip to the zoo. I wasn't sure how it would be--last year, we had a pretty solid routine of seeing the African Forest trail, then the Farm, then the splash pad followed by lunch at the Russian Coast food stand. This year, since I don't have a job for the fall, we're trying to save some money so I packed a lunch. And you have opinions, kiddo. Big opinions. You wanted to see the "ghosts" (goats) first. You also wanted to see a lion (which we don't have at our zoo), but you did not want to see a tiger (too scary). (We did see the tiger; he ran towards you and you jumped and clapped and weren't scared at all.)
So we went to see the goats at the Family Farm, the most remote location in the zoo. On the way we stopped at a playground, the tiger den, the moose and caribou pens (you later said that your favorite animal was the moose), and then a second playground.
Here's where it gets interesting.
We were playing in the playground, and I was getting very irritated with all of the big kids who were coming in and tackling each other, getting in the way of you littler guys. So when a boy came tearing into the playground screaming, I was annoyed at first. More big kids? Come on, let the little ones just play! Then I saw his face. He was genuinely terrified. And when I looked to see what had scared him so much, I understood: a Mexican grey wolf was coming up from behind him. Nothing malicious, just cantering behind on his way to freedom. My first instinct was to point out to you that there was a wolf; then I came to my senses and pulled you into the bathroom, away from the wolf and whatever might happen next. When we emerged, the wolf had gone down another trail, to liberate some friends, I would imagine, and we headed to the farm's grain elevator, where we were kept for 10 minutes until the wolf had been...well, until the wolf had been put down, sadly. But you and I didn't know that, and we sang "Old McDonald," planned out the animals we would see, and learned about soy beans and sugar beets.
The rest of our day was spectacularly uneventful. You fed the "ghosts" and saw the dairy cattle. You went to the splash pad and emulated the older boys--again with the older boys--by putting your head directly into the water fountain so that only your hair would get wet. You stood over deceitfully waterless fountains until a spring would pop up and you would run away, scream-laughing.
When it was time to eat lunch, you didn't remember that last year we would treat ourselves to cheeseburgers and french fries; instead, you picked out a table, got in the chair, and made slow work of your carrots and peanut butter sandwich. Your chips were okay; the strawberry yogurt I packed was "yucky, Mommy." You ate only the peanut butter from your sandwich, showing me your newest peanut butter method of rubbing some on your thumb and licking it off.
We quietly went home and you napped deeply and woke up screaming, but happy enough to sit with your Dad and watch Diego.
Happy first day at the zoo, Connor. Summer must be here.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Alligators and Bedtime
Dear Connor,
I never started a baby book for you, because I know how bad I am at keeping things like that going. I am lucky that you were born in 2009, because I have documented your life until now in hundreds (maybe thousands!) of photos, videos, and posts about your growth in emails and on Facebook. I've decided that writing to you is something that I really want to do, and I have finally figured out how to do it. My purpose is to give you small stories about how our day was, or our weekend, or whatever interval of time has passed since the last post. I only wish I had thought of it earlier.
Today you are two years, one month, and twenty-six days old.
There are two stories that I want to tell you about today. The first involves your new big boy room. With the upcoming arrival of your sister, you moved downstairs from your baby bedroom to your big boy car bedroom. The transition was so much easier than your Dad and I expected; you love playing and sleeping in your big boy bed in your big boy room. This morning, when I came to get you after you woke up, you were crying and still waking up, but as soon as I picked you up, you told me to close the door. "Close the door, Mommy! All the way!" I asked why, and you told me that there were alligators in your room; you didn't want them coming out to watch Super Why with us. Were you scared? No. In fact, we went in to chase the alligators a few times before we all left for school.
The second thing that happened tonight happened at bedtime. You have struggled with bedtime for a while; mostly you want either your Dad or I to stay with you until you fall asleep. It has made bedtime hard for a while; we love singing and reading at night, but hate leaving you in your room. Tonight, though, you told me to leave! You preferred to read your books to yourself (Potty; Yummy, Yucky; and No No Yes Yes!--depending on when you read this, you might be embarrassed or amused by those titles.). You gave me "big kisses," which means blowing on my cheeks until you got a good, wet raspberry sound, said goodnight, and I haven't heard from you yet. I'm so proud.
Goodnight, Connor man. I love you, I love you.
I never started a baby book for you, because I know how bad I am at keeping things like that going. I am lucky that you were born in 2009, because I have documented your life until now in hundreds (maybe thousands!) of photos, videos, and posts about your growth in emails and on Facebook. I've decided that writing to you is something that I really want to do, and I have finally figured out how to do it. My purpose is to give you small stories about how our day was, or our weekend, or whatever interval of time has passed since the last post. I only wish I had thought of it earlier.
Today you are two years, one month, and twenty-six days old.
There are two stories that I want to tell you about today. The first involves your new big boy room. With the upcoming arrival of your sister, you moved downstairs from your baby bedroom to your big boy car bedroom. The transition was so much easier than your Dad and I expected; you love playing and sleeping in your big boy bed in your big boy room. This morning, when I came to get you after you woke up, you were crying and still waking up, but as soon as I picked you up, you told me to close the door. "Close the door, Mommy! All the way!" I asked why, and you told me that there were alligators in your room; you didn't want them coming out to watch Super Why with us. Were you scared? No. In fact, we went in to chase the alligators a few times before we all left for school.
The second thing that happened tonight happened at bedtime. You have struggled with bedtime for a while; mostly you want either your Dad or I to stay with you until you fall asleep. It has made bedtime hard for a while; we love singing and reading at night, but hate leaving you in your room. Tonight, though, you told me to leave! You preferred to read your books to yourself (Potty; Yummy, Yucky; and No No Yes Yes!--depending on when you read this, you might be embarrassed or amused by those titles.). You gave me "big kisses," which means blowing on my cheeks until you got a good, wet raspberry sound, said goodnight, and I haven't heard from you yet. I'm so proud.
Goodnight, Connor man. I love you, I love you.
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