Darling Ellie,
Years from now, when you are graduating summa cum laude from some prestigious university probably on the east coast, we will look back on early February 2009 as the time when you first began to assert your independent thinking and self-assuredness and carved in stone the fact that you are indeed the daughter of a certain someone whose most defining characteristic is "Spunk."
It doesn't matter if we are talking about applying salad dressing to a pile of lettuce leaves on your plastic plate, removing your diaper, combing your hair, donning your shoes or fastening yourself into your car seat - You proclaim to all within earshot, "I DOOD IT!" Then, you follow it up with a look through those adorable jewel-encrusted glasses that says, "Just try to mess with me, Buddy/Mama. My Force Field is up - and if you even TRY to remove said diaper without my permission, I will spin my head a full 360 degrees, spew fire from every orifice and bonk you over the head with my stuffed monkey." Thus, Mama backs off and waits until you realize your pants are on backwards/you can't reach the yogurt/you can't drive the car yet. Then, you ask for help, and we can all get on with the business of our day again. (Thank God.) When I am in the moment, I may sometimes seem a bit, shall we say, frustrated. But, when I am thinking objectively, I am happy (and proud) about your spunk. I have long feared (although that's not the right word...) the fact that you are 20 months younger than Mags, but will probably only be one grade behind her in school. She will be nearly 6 when she starts kindergarten and very likely will be solving quadratic equations by the time she hits first grade. But, I am confident that you will kick some ass of your own when you get to school. Because you are Ellie, with a capital E.
Your teacher at KinderCare, Ms Christine - Or just "Christine" as you like to call her - LOVES you. You walk in, and she can't wait to give you a hug and promise that you won't get sent off to another class because you make her laugh. (Plus that, you are the only kid who enunciates clearly enough for her to understand what the hell you're saying.) This morning, she told me a story. The other day, I guess she mentioned that it was snack time. Being a food-driven creature, you went and sat down at the table. I guess the other kids (being two) kept playing and running around. Ms Christine got distracted. A few minutes later, she again said, "Okay, it's snack time!" And you, still sitting at the table with your hands neatly crossed, deadpanned, "YEAH, you already said that." The world can't spin fast enough for my Ellie.
Years from now, when you are graduating summa cum laude from some prestigious university probably on the east coast, we will look back on early February 2009 as the time when you first began to assert your independent thinking and self-assuredness and carved in stone the fact that you are indeed the daughter of a certain someone whose most defining characteristic is "Spunk."
It doesn't matter if we are talking about applying salad dressing to a pile of lettuce leaves on your plastic plate, removing your diaper, combing your hair, donning your shoes or fastening yourself into your car seat - You proclaim to all within earshot, "I DOOD IT!" Then, you follow it up with a look through those adorable jewel-encrusted glasses that says, "Just try to mess with me, Buddy/Mama. My Force Field is up - and if you even TRY to remove said diaper without my permission, I will spin my head a full 360 degrees, spew fire from every orifice and bonk you over the head with my stuffed monkey." Thus, Mama backs off and waits until you realize your pants are on backwards/you can't reach the yogurt/you can't drive the car yet. Then, you ask for help, and we can all get on with the business of our day again. (Thank God.) When I am in the moment, I may sometimes seem a bit, shall we say, frustrated. But, when I am thinking objectively, I am happy (and proud) about your spunk. I have long feared (although that's not the right word...) the fact that you are 20 months younger than Mags, but will probably only be one grade behind her in school. She will be nearly 6 when she starts kindergarten and very likely will be solving quadratic equations by the time she hits first grade. But, I am confident that you will kick some ass of your own when you get to school. Because you are Ellie, with a capital E.
Your teacher at KinderCare, Ms Christine - Or just "Christine" as you like to call her - LOVES you. You walk in, and she can't wait to give you a hug and promise that you won't get sent off to another class because you make her laugh. (Plus that, you are the only kid who enunciates clearly enough for her to understand what the hell you're saying.) This morning, she told me a story. The other day, I guess she mentioned that it was snack time. Being a food-driven creature, you went and sat down at the table. I guess the other kids (being two) kept playing and running around. Ms Christine got distracted. A few minutes later, she again said, "Okay, it's snack time!" And you, still sitting at the table with your hands neatly crossed, deadpanned, "YEAH, you already said that." The world can't spin fast enough for my Ellie.
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