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.