Epistle: To my son, on the occasion of several days having passed since his third birthday

Dear Baby J,

You are discovering what it is to be the fourth child: to always be overlooked and forgotten. I am sorry, and although you will probably never believe this as you get over, it doesn't actually mean that we love you less. It just means that we are more tired, and we are human. I really am sorry. I wanted to write this note on Friday, and I just didn't get there. And then yesterday, your brother was home sick from school, so I didn't again. So here we are, and you can tell this story to your therapist one day. I don't mind.

I suppose that now that you are a grown-up boy of three, we should probably just call you J, not Baby J, but for now, you are still the baby. And I can't believe how big you've become. It's terrifying.

You say the most complex things. "Mommy, I don't like cold drinks. Cold drinks are not good. I want different apple juice in my pisty cup. Also I want a strop [straw]. A yellow strop. Because yellow is my color! [his assigned color in preschool]" You are particularly demanding at TV time. "I want to watch a scientist, a rescuer, an explorer, a monkey, and a jaguar on a great adventure to help a Mayasaurus." No other episode of Dora or Diego will do. And if TiVo can't deliver? Well, we might as well just throw ourselves onto the knife right now.

You love to follow your big brother around. You love to play with trucks and to sing. Boy, do you love to sing. You love to go on bear hunts. You love to climb into my bed and hug me and tell me that I have to take care of you.

In the weeks before you turned three, we tried to prepare you for your big haircut. You were not happy at the idea and told us repeatedly: "You cannot cut my hair. Zizzors are DANGEROUS." But in the end, we did cut your hair, and you look SO BIG now and it is really, really scary, because you are the baby.

Just look at the difference between this:




And this.



We love you so much. At least one hundred.

Love,
Mama