Dear Parks,

Last week you received your very first set of skinned knees. I’m not sure if that was more of a milestone for your Dad and me, or you. I have a tendency to think it was probably a bigger deal for us as your father cried like a little girl, my first reaction was to call 911, and you basically stood up in the yard like Rambo breaking through the top of a lake in the jungle with an automatic weapon and fired off something akin to, “You WUSSIES. A LITTLE BLOOD WILL NOT STOP ME FROM EATING THIS GRASS.” Then you ate some grass and snapped a kitten’s neck just for pure pleasure. Kidding. That kitten part I totally made up.

What’s strange is that at the time I couldn’t decide which upset me more. The eating of something from OUTSIDE or the fact that you were bleeding and gave as much care to that as a roided-out college football player. In fact, you screamed your ass off when we dragged you inside for a rub of Neosporin and a band aid. Once we figured out that you were not going to break in half and dissolve into red plumes of skinned flesh, your Dad and I visibly relaxed, called both sets of grandparents, and retold the story like Korean vets discussing a jungle skirmish.

The next day I whacked you on the side of the eye with a dresser drawer when you snuck up behind me and it left a small cut near your eye. I then spent the better part of three days CONVINCED someone was going to report us for child abuse instead of reporting you for having a really, really hard head and a preternatural ability to sneak up behind people without them hearing you. If I wasn’t pretty sure who your daddy was, I’d think you were part Native American.

Lately, you’ve fallen in love with “Dora” and “Boots” (and can scream their names in a frequency only heard by ferrets, as well) but you also have discovered “The Backyardigans” and “Blues Clues”. “The Backyardigans” come on at 7pm and this is usually the time you are wrapping up dinner. If you can hear the theme song in the kitchen you raise your arms, bark, and demand to be taken out of your high chair so you can run into the living room to stare at the TV for 30 minutes. And, when I say stare, I mean loose all high levels of consciousness, go into a trance, and stand still staring at the television where even a hand being waved in front of your face will not break your concentration. Like a medium channeling “Uniqua’s” spirit. At first, we were a little freaked out as your ability to concentrate on something for a long period of time is extremely scary. Yes, SCARY.

When you have a 15-month-old who doesn’t even acknowledge your existence if you jump up and down and wave chocolate bunny cookies under her nose-and she’s related to you and you KNOW how much a good chocolate bunny is worth the effort-you WILL get freaked out about it. Your father and I have become increasingly more upset about the love you seem to have for the television. So upset that three days ago we became “those” sort of parents. You know, the sort of parents that decide “Hey! We don’t really like our child a whole lot so let’s REFUSE to let her watch television and see how pissed she gets. Just for shits and giggles”.

So, two nights ago with absolutely no ceremony, we turned off all the televisions and silently watched your head explode all over the living room for the next thirty minutes until you adjusted to the idea that you were actually going to be forced to interact with your parents for the next hour and a half until bedtime. There was wailing and slapping and screaming and stomping and dramatic throwing of oneself on the floor while beating of hands and fists and the gnashing of teeth. It was of Biblical proportions. I’ve never known I’d made a better parenting decision than right then when I was watching your reaction. If you loved Blue’s Clues THAT MUCH it was obvious your father and I were not making enough of a mark on your psyche.

You finally calmed down and let us read you books and point out pictures while you delighted in telling us what everything was, “buder-ply” (butterfly) and “bee” and “wow-wer” (flower) and “woof woofs” and “meow meows” and “dars” (stars). And, seriously, it’s not just because I’m your mom, but I think if we recorded you saying “buder-ply” and “wow-wer” that we could instantaneously cause world peace if we played it over world-wide loud speakers just with the cuteness dripping off the mispronunciation of each word. Last night I think I offered you a brand new car if you would just say “buder-ply” ONE MORE TIME. You obliged every single time until I could tell that you were getting a little tired and looking at me like, ‘Hey, Lady, I’ve told you what that effin’ BUG is fourteen times in the past thirty minutes. If you can’t remember, I’m sort of scared that I am your progeny. I hope my Dad is smarter for my own sake.”

But, you did oblige us every time we asked until about thirty minutes later when I asked you if you wanted to play in your room until bed time and you raised your arm, pointed towards the television, and pretty plainly asked me in your own language “Will the television be playing in the bedroom, M’lady?” I know you asked this because when I answered it with a very clear, “No. We aren’t going to watch television in the bedroom either” you returned to previous explosive head state full on with the slapping and beating of the floor. I couldn’t really get upset as this fit was, once again, about” Dor-da” so I just stood there until your father caved and picked you up and we seemed to convince you that you were going to live. It took a while for you to believe us. But, you eventually did and we finally put you to bed that first night with no television and you calmed enough to seem to enjoy the extra reading and interaction.

The second night….well, let’s just say there was about the same amount of angst regarding the TV not being turned on but for fewer minutes than the first and you settled into playing with your father and I a little quicker and took delight in showing us all the “bees” and “buder-plys” and “wow-wers” once again. We retrieved some new books and laughed as you made a “vroom vrrooom” sound for all the cars in it along with screaming “DUK” every time we turned the page and you saw the yellow feathered creature.

Every. Single. Time.

That book seemed to last as long as “War and Peace”. Only with less Russians and instead of having 16 different names, every one was named "DUCK".

Luckily, we finally came to a “tiger” in the book and-being pretty sure that you had no idea what that was-I pointed to it and said, “TYE-GERR”. You pointed at it and said “danke scheon”. OK, Wayne Newton. Whatever. Let’s try this again.

I point at the picture and say “TYE-GERR” and you point at it and say “Danke Scheon”. I have a hard time not bursting into song here and reenacting the parade scene from Ferris Bueller. So, I just say, “Yeah, it’s a Danke Scheon” and we moved on. I figure there will be a pre-school teacher somewhere who can clean that mess up. Just like they can tell you Mama’s cleavage isn’t really her belly button. What the hell are we paying them for anyway?

After finishing this book, it was nearing bedtime and as an afterthought we decided to ask you if you were “ready to go night night”. Normally, this incurs a little bit of screaming followed by some screaming with a little more scream-filled screams. But that night, you popped up, threw your sippie at your Dad and mumbled something that sounded like, “blowin’ this borin’-ass joint”, turned around, slid off the couch and practically ran to your room like your ass was on fire. You then pointed at your Dad, pointed at your paci, and then pointed at the rocking chair. You then stood there with your hands outstretched like, “Come on, bitches, let’s DO THIS THANG.” Your dad sat down, put you in his lap, cranked back and you were asleep within two minutes.

It’s so nice to know we entertain you that much. We love you too, honey.

There were lots of “firsts” in the past few weeks. We left you for the first time with people that were not family. Well, not “technically” family. But, your Uncle T and Aunt M are pretty much related minus that whole pesky ‘sharing blood’ thing. Although they don’t have kids…we thought if you were in your crib asleep there was slim to 23% chance of them not killing you within three hours. Surprisingly, they managed not to kill you and your father and I got over our fear of leaving you with anyone other than our mothers. Well, *I* did. Your dad checked his phone every two minutes and vibrated the entire time we were out for dinner.

Have we discussed the level of anxiety that you are naturally going to inherit from the both of us yet? If we haven’t, maybe I should go ahead and start schooling you on symptoms and pharmaceuticals. Although, with the way you react to some situations, I can already tell you are going to be an interesting kid who has her own ideas about how things should work. Basically, everything in the world belongs to you and the rest of us are just borrowing it without your permission.

Like, yesterday morning, when I got into the shower in “your” bathroom (which isn’t really YOUR bathroom so much as a bathroom that happens to be attached to your bedroom) and you pulled back the shower curtain and screamed, “NO MAMA. MY WA WA”. You continued to scream this for three minutes until I nearly broke a leg falling over laughing in the tub and your dad came in and dragged you away screaming “NOOOOOOO” as you beat your fists on his chest. You know, because no one should have the gumption to use YOUR WA WA without permission. Next time I’m going to bring up how you totally used my uterus for ten months without MY permission. Let’s not even mention the conditions under which you came into the world. I think that certainly makes me worthy of using a few drops of YOUR WAWA. At least, I think so. It’s also why I take bites of your ice cream cones, kiss you as much as I want no matter how hard you push me away, and occasionally put stupid ass outfits on you for my entertainment. I figure I’ve earned it. If you don’t believe me, I’ll totally show you my hemorrhoids.

I’ll leave you with something that your great-grandfather once said to me.

“Quit your crying. I’ve had worse things in MY EYE.”

He then rubbed me down with gasoline while smoking a cigar to kill the “chiggers” I was screaming about.

Granted, not the best parenting advice. But definitely a good perspective through which to see the world. Or, maybe just borderline neglect. Who knows?

All I DO know is that right now you are the coolest thing EVER.

Love,
Mama