I love you. I do. And, dang, you’re cute. Last night when you crawled in bed with me after your bad dream, I could have snuggled you for hours. The way you say, “Mommy, I love you all the times,” kind of makes my heart melt, over and over and over. And over. You know, since you say it all day. I love you all the times, too.

Which is why I need to write this letter.

I looked at your Daddy the other day and said, “Is it just me or is LittleBrother becoming increasingly difficult?” He laughed. And nodded. Emphatically. Of course, we know what’s up: you’re almost three.

For most of this year, you have been a ray of sunshine with intermittent storm clouds and the occasional lightning bolt. Really, you’ve just been great. You listen well. You clean up toys. You attempt to share and do so better with people other than your older brother. You sleep well. You all but potty trained yourself. You’re a good eater. But the reason that people made up the myth of the Terrible Twos was solely to make sure that parents let their children live until they were three… so they could then laugh at those going through the Tyrannical Threes that no one prepared them for.

Oh, the threes. Your brother took us for a wild ride. I thought that maybe, just maybe, as you have strikingly different personalities, you might skip the Tyrannical Threes. Looks like no dice on that one. Recently you’ve been trying to shirk your bedtime but still waking up just as early. Your use of the word no in your very unique high pitched squeal is becoming more frequent. The attitude you deliver certain lines with can be alarming (and, really, kind of funny with your teeny-tiny voice). And the issues we’re having with food as of late are making me kind of twitchy. I really don’t like to twitch, Bubba. I don’t.

I know we’ll survive the threes. We will. But, really, if you could just tone it down a little bit until maybe three-and-a-half, give me some time to gear up, that would be spectacular. You won’t be three for another few months. I don’t need a preview. I know what’s coming. I understand the arguments we’ll have. And really, I guess I’m prepared already. I’ve been here, done this. But I just wasn’t ready for you to grow up, to move forward to the point where you won’t like me anymore. You’re my baby. I’d really like you to like me for just a little longer. Is that too much to ask?

It is?

Oh. Well, the good news is that I do love you all the times.

Please just remember that you love me all the times the next time I put you in time out for whatever you’ve done or said. Okay? And maybe you could snuggle just a little bit more. Yeah? Please?

Love you all the times, even when you’re almost three,
Mommy

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“THE MOOSE! MOOSE!”

At first I thought maybe he was talking about the moon. Maybe I hadn’t closed his blinds tightly enough and the full moon was shining in his window, “looking at him” as he complains that the sun so often does. I asked him if he meant the moon.

“NO! The MOOSE! Was COMING… *sob*… IN … *sob* … the HOUSE!”

We pulled him into our bed and he eventually calmed down. At one point, the moose was green. At another point, the offending, nightmarish moose was blue. Whatever his color, he was apparently horrific. He fell asleep and proceeded to kick, flip, flop and generally disrupt our sleep for the rest of the night.

On Saturday night, we tucked him into his bed. Around 10:30, the screaming began again. Once more we were met at his door by a frantic LittleBrother.

“THE MOOSE!”

We convinced him that the moose was gone, that he wasn’t in the house and that he was never coming back. Ever again. He looked at us with wary eyes but told us goodnight through leftover sobs. Thankfully he slept through the rest of the night. FireDad and I got a full night’s sleep.

I just can’t imagine what his two-and-a-half-year-old brain is conjuring up. The only two moose (mooses?) that he has experience with would be Moose A. Moose and the moose from the book Moostletoe. Neither of them seem all that menacing. I mean, sure, Moose A Moose is sporting some severely yellow skin which could be a sign that he’s fighting off some form of Hepatitis. It could be autoimmune but I wouldn’t share needles with him. And Moostletoe moose is absentminded enough to forget a Christmas tree which means he could be a raging alcoholic suffering from black outs. But, you know, they don’t look evil.

Or… do they.

Is that how LittleBrother sees Moose A Moose? I mean, I know that his songs can make me feel like sticking daggers in my ear drums but he still doesn’t look scary. He’s really quite nice if not slightly repetitive. (Are we there yet? ARE WE THERE YET?) Moose A Moose has taught us all about the seasons and recycling and being repetitive! (See?) Hardly nightmare material.

I just can’t figure out why LittleBrother has chosen to have nightmares about any moose at all. If anything, I think his nighttime panic would have something to do with his dad running into burning buildings. After watching Firehouse Dog, the two boys have been play-acting firefighter scenes with more frequency. They heard sirens in the distance the other day and had to run inside and find their helmets. Though maybe I’m not all that surprised that they don’t have nightmares about fire. I never seem to dream about people or situations that are currently going on in my life. Only high school, old boyfriends and random people chasing me through the woods. Maybe LittleBrother is conjuring up Evil Moose Visions because we’ve recently cut back even more on our TV time due to the gorgeous weather we’ve been having. Maybe he actually misses Moose A Moose. Unlikely but maybe.

Whatever the case, I sure hope he’s able to get some sleep soon. You know, because I like sleep, too. And a world free of Big Scary Moose…s.

Only to find the rain jackets were all gone.

Thankfully his rain jacket from last year still (mostly) fits. I figure he’ll outgrow it by fall but that’s okay. They did, however, have a firefighter umbrella left. LittleBrother has been looking longingly at BigBrother’s Lightning McQueen umbrella for months now. Not that said umbrella got much use during The Snow That Never Ended but it was present in the truck and both boys would talk about walking in the rain and puddle jumping. So, we bought the firefighter umbrella.

And there it sat.

For weeks.

I’m not complaining at the lack of rain (even though I have awesome new boots). But when you’re two (or four) and all you want to do is use your new umbrella, I’m sure day after day after day of gorgeous, sunshiney days is as big a let down as you can imagine. Every day he asked me if he could use his umbrella. Every day I had to explain that we use our umbrellas in the rain. Every single day he gave me that sad little pouty face that breaks my heart. I may or may not have prayed for a little bit of rain.

And rain it did.

I think he was happy.

And that little grin almost makes the rain tolerable. Almost.

LittleBrother is potty trained.

In the winter of 2007, BigBrother and I had to skip weekly coffee with my friends for weeks as he struggled to make heads or tails of his bodily functions. This time around we didn’t have to skip anything. Why? We didn’t get to go anywhere for three weeks anyway due to the weather. Therefore, LittleBrother got three weeks of running around the house in a shirt, underwear, socks and sometimes slippers. Sometimes he threw a pair of Babylegs into the ensemble and cute pictures happened.

Some people do hole up in their homes with their potty interested toddler. They turn down invitations. They avoid the store. They run out of food, starve and everyone goes insane. You know, kind of like what happens when twelve inches of snow get another six inches of snow and then get topped with three more and then some freezing rain as a cherry on top of the sloppy sundae of winter. We had no choice. We were stuck at home. Why not parade around in underwear, sit in the hallway outside the bathroom and put stickers on a piece of construction paper? What else was there to do?

We were brave. Or silly. Probably a little of both. He wore underwear to the calling hours and the funeral last week. Unlike BigBrother, he has no fear of public restrooms. In fact, he adores them. We visit them. Repeatedly. On every trip outside of the house. It’s been interesting but productive. Literally.

He still occasionally has a small accident. The other day, we were taking out the trash during naptime. We came back into the house to hear LittleBrother at his door, his little voice coming out from under, “Sorry, Daddy.” It’s okay, Bubba. Accidents happen. We do some reminding, of course, but he also asks and tells us when he needs to use the bathroom. It’s quite shocking. Writing about it is kind of brave. He’ll probably decide tomorrow that baby diapers are all the rage and I’ll cry.

Maybe it was the book. Maybe it was all that sign language we did with him before he became (wicked) verbal. Maybe it was the awesome underwear he got for Christmas. Maybe it was following anyone who went into the bathroom so that privacy was a thing of the past. Maybe he was so tired of being at home that he created a new challenge for himself (and for us). Maybe he was just ready. I don’t know. All I know is that, except for nights, we’re done with diapers. (Night time readiness is a physiological response, not a matter of training.)

So, despite the cold, long, annoying winter, I’m thrilled that LittleBrother is potty trained. He’s even wearing pants over his underwear during the day now.  I maintain that pants are overrated but apparently it’s appropriate to wear them outside the house. Maybe we’ll stay in just a few days more. (Out of necessity. More snow on the way. Woo?)

(By the way, on the post I linked to March of 2007 and in the picture of LittleBrother in February 2009, the boys are wearing the same shirt. Apparently it’s a potty training favorite because it’s short in length which means no pee on it. Win.)

Even Firefighters Go to the Potty: A Potty Training Lift-the-Flap Story

The book itself is not all about firefighters. The front cover and first two-page-spread feature a firefighter. The rest of the book features other people that young children tend to think are cool: police officers, baseball players, construction workers, doctors, astronauts, waiters, pilots, train engineers and zoo keepers. Each page features a scene in which a character has gone missing because he needs to use the potty. The firefighter example finds the other firefighters scrambling to the truck to respond to an alarm but the firefighter who drives the truck is missing. Where could he have gone? Lift the flap… he’s using the potty because even firefighters go to the potty. Rinse repeat with all of the other characters.

LittleBrother thinks this book is hilarious. He loves lifting the flap, announcing where the character in question is and giggling at the absurdity of it all. That, of course, might be the problem. I really think he might believe the book is absurd, a fictional tale about adults going to the bathroom. Of course, that’s not the fault of the book. LittleBrother is just silly.

You might have noticed my heavy use of the masculine pronouns. The only female who uses the potty (shown washing her hands, which is another great point to teach with) is the doctor. Everyone else is male. I mean, I’m all for women being doctors but, really, they could have thrown in one more mail, don’t you think? That negative aside, the children and adults in the book have a variety of different skin tones which is something we always like to see in our books. Win some, lose some, I suppose.

One final and big bonus of this book for both parents and children: the strong, durable pages. They are glossy and have a coating that I would liken to plastic but, trust me, it’s not plastic. If you go to test the pages to find out if they can rip, trust me, they can. The good thing that is unless you’re actively trying to rip the page to write about it in a review, you’re unlikely to rip it. Even LittleBrother, zealously lifting the flap so that he can laugh at the silliness of it all, hasn’t yet ripped off a flap or torn it at all. That’s a big selling point for me when it comes to books like these!

So, yes, we’ve been reading a lot of Even Firefighters Go to the Potty around these parts. That and another funny book (How to Potty Train Your Monster) have become bathroom reading staples. And, really, anytime reading staples as of late. Hopefully they help LittleBrother decide that using the potty isn’t something just to laugh about and he makes the final journey into underwear. I think it’s soon. Or, rather, I hope it’s soon.

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[Disclosure: Links are through Amazon Associates.]

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For more Wordless Wednesday, visit 5 Minutes for Mom.

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[For more Wordless Wednesday, visit 5 Minutes for Mom.]

I won’t give you an exact date or even the exact length of time of his nursing career. I will say that it was over one year but under two years. (Obviously as his second birthday is just under two months from today.) I will only say that much about the length of time. Why? Some will say that anything over the year mark was too long. Some will say that anything under the two year mark was not long enough. And I will tell both camps to fluff off. Kindly, of course.

Our nursing experience was wonderful. Once we got his tongue tie fixed and learned to ignore the doctors regarding slow weight gain, it was smooth sailing. I could have kept right on nursing for much longer. LittleBrother had other plans. At first, when he stopped, I thought we were going through the inevitable nursing strike. Those happen. I was prepared for it. And then it didn’t stop with the strike. He got some pumped milk for awhile, in a sippy cup because we just never did bottles. Plus, he wanted to be like BigBrother. But he absolutely refused the breast. Pushing, hitting. Screaming, demanding. “Milk. Cup.” He didn’t want to stop to be with me. He wanted to be just like his older brother. He didn’t have time to snuggle and cuddle with me anymore.

I continued to offer for awhile. I continued to pump for awhile, watching my supply tank over a three week period. I resigned myself that it was over when a month had passed and he had fought me any time I had offered. I don’t even recall the date of our last legitimate nursing session; I wasn’t expecting it to be the last. I was expecting months more of time alone with my last baby. Not so. I’m sure it was a lovely time together.

Then the guilt hit, of course, when the frozen breast milk supply ran out and we switched fully to whole milk. And he had some intestinal issues and was diagnosed with mild lactose intolerance. Great, I thought. If I had just forced the issue, if I had just gotten him back to the breast, we wouldn’t be having these problems! Of course, we would have in the end. I found out after that diagnosis that I make a lot of meals with milk. At the worst of his issue, even mashed potatoes made with milk resulted in a horrible intestinal problem. I learned to cook without milk for quite some time. I kept beating myself up over the issue but I learned. I kept hoping that our doctor was right, that somewhere near the age of two he might outgrow the lactose intolerance.

We had been planning on waiting until the month of his birthday to reintroduce milk products. Then I accidentally made a huge meal with milk and cheese and basically just a volcano of dairy. Mommy brain implosion, apparently. After we ate and even the day after, LittleBrother didn’t have his normal explosive reaction. A few days later, we offered him some of the cottage cheese that BigBrother eats every day with lunch. He liked it. No reaction. We continued to offer the cottage cheese while on vacation last month. No reaction. Upon returning home from said vacation, we offered a glass of milk. He drank it. He liked it. No reaction. No reactions at all for the past month. In fact, he’s had better bowel movements since returning to milk than he had on the rice milk. Color us shocked.

Cooking is easier again. As usual, he’s my good eater so he’s been enjoying all of the recipes that I had to avoid during our months of anti-milk propaganda. He’s happy, not that he ever wasn’t, doing things just like his brother. My guilt is lessening. I really felt horrible for the interim months when we kept dealing with stomach issues. I kept beating myself up for not sticking it out, for not forcing the issue. Not that I feel that I could have; he was determined to keep up with his brother. I was just weighing him down.

I’m happy to see him as a very independent toddler. I know that our months of breastfeeding and bonding helped that along. I do miss our moments together but, more so than his brother, he’s a lover and cuddler. He will be running by and stop to kiss or hug me. Or his daddy. Or anyone sitting still. A lover, indeed. I have my moments of nostalgia and sadness when I see my friends nursing their young ones, knowing that I’ll never experience that closeness with another baby. But mostly I’m just trying to keep up with two very quick, very busy, very energetic little boys who are constantly trying to out-do one another.

And that’s okay.

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[For more Wordless Wednesday, visit 5 Minutes for Mom.]

One sentence: That new cabinet-in-progress is LittleBrother’s favorite place right now.

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[For more Wordless Wednesday, visit 5 Minutes for Mom.]