a letter to my son on his third birthday
GB, Geebs, Geebo–
Well, kid, you’re three. A threenager, as they say nowadays, and boy does it show. I was rereading last year’s letter and it seems at two you were just practicing for the horror that was to come.
I’ll be honest: the past month or so has been pretty rough. You get, um, explosively emotional sometimes and it seems most of your ire is directed at me. I say sometimes that you’re like an abusive boyfriend–you go from yelling and hitting me one second, to stroking my face and telling me I’m pretty the next. Sometimes, though, you’re very calm and you’re telling me and Holdy, “it’ll be alright.” So my sweet GB is still in there somewhere, but he’s a little more hidden than he used to be. It’s sort of a Bruce Banner/The Hulk situation, I guess.
Speaking of The Hulk, you are obsessed with superheroes. Spider-Man and Captain America mostly. You know all of the Avengers’ first names and like to use them: “Spider-Man Peter Parker” (or Petuh Pawkah in your accent), “Tony Iron Man.” You like to pretend you can climb the wall and you have Spider-Man shoes, shirts, hoodie and underpants.
Ah… underpants. We just did our potty-training bootcamp this weekend and it actually went pretty well. I did have to take home several bags of wet clothes from yesterday’s first attempt at school, but we’ll get there. You’re refusing Pull-Ups now, saying, “I’m big” with a shrug. It’s true, you are.
You started school this year at York Day Nursery. Your teachers are Miss Jennifer, Miss Sheryl and Miss Latasha. You thrive at school. You like to work with your hands and you are so creative. Your school likes to send little notes home with interesting things you’ve said throughout the day. The latest was when you were coloring with a yellow crayon you said, “I’m making sunshine!” You speak in complex sentences and you have an impressively large vocabulary.
Of course, that vocabulary also includes curse words. Man, you have a filthy mouth; way worse than your sister ever had. The other weekend you were having a morning meltdown in my face so I removed you from my presence. You sat outside my bedroom, banging on the door, repeatedly moaning for me to, “open the fucking door.” Two days later, you were angry at me for not getting your milk (and I was angry at you for not asking nicely), and you yelled at me to, “get the milk, fucker!” I mean, you were using the terms correctly which makes me secretly proud, but obviously that’s not cool, dude. We’re working on it.
Your favorite food is scrambled eggs. You and your sister would eat breakfast for dinner every night if you could… and during Restaurant Week this year you literally did. You love “white milk” and “bars” and that’s about it. You need to eat, kid! Your lack of appetite drives me nuts.
Your sister is your best friend but you guys fight like cats and dogs. You’re at each others necks (sometimes literally) all night, and yet somehow you both choose to sleep together in the same bed every night. I’m so glad that you guys have each other and I hope you stay just as close as you grow… though it does make for some crazy evenings at our house.
You’ve grown to love Sally, who sleeps with you guys every night. You’re warming to Brutus, though I understand having a large creature who’s literally 100 pounds larger than you bounding at your being might be a little frightening.
You’re warm and curious and thoughtful. You’re funny. You’re reserved with people you don’t know. You’re my buddy. You really are a mama’s boy. Sometimes it’s a little ridiculous–you really should be wiping your own nose by now. But I’m glad you still like to give hugs and kisses and I’m secretly happy to still carry you around (sometimes. Not when my hands are full of bags and whatnot).
Happy Birthday, Buddy. We love you.