Smiling Mom

Dear BC,

Today you are three. It feels like it was just yes­ter­day when you were born. I can’t believe you’re beco­ming such a big boy so quickly.

This year you lear­ned many things. You were potty trai­ned in Sep­tem­ber. You lear­ned to ride your tricycle in Octo­ber, and the let­ters of the alpha­bet in January.

You are an inc­re­dibly inte­lli­gent young man, and I fear that you’ll pass me up inte­llec­tually soo­ner rather than later. What a scary thought for a mom!

Two weeks before Christ­mas, you went into our shed and saw the play kitchen that Santa would even­tually bring you and your sis­ter for Christ­mas. Mid January, I was remin­ding you to shut the doors to the kitchen nicely because Santa gave you this gift and we want to keep it nice.

You said, “No Mommy, Santa didn’t give this to me. It was in the shed. Remem­ber? It was in the shed.”

You are very smart, and have a fan­tas­tic memory. Just two weeks ago, in June, we visi­ted our local hard­wood store and saw some sheds out front. You asked me, “Mommy, does Santa live in a shed?”

You have a very, very good memory. Have I men­tio­ned this already?

Back in Sep­tem­ber, you had a trau­ma­tic acci­dent to your tooth. I have a snea­king sus­pi­cion this will be one of your first memo­ries. I believe this to be true because 9 months later you can still recount almost every detail, exactly as it happened.

We were at the park and you were sit­ting on one of those metal merry-go-rounds, min­ding your own busi­ness. This was your first expe­rience on one and you were very exci­ted. I was sit­ting yards away from you nur­sing your baby sis­ter. I loo­ked away from you for a split second just as 3–4 big kids jum­ped on the merry-go-around accom­pa­nied by a man. This man came up and pushed them, quickly.

He didn’t notice you.

Like it was yes­ter­day, the scene plays again, and again in my head. I scream “hold on!!”, He pushes. You sit there on the edge smiling.

Bam, whack, thud your body gets thrust against the metal pole, onto the metal floor and then thrown for­ward into the tanbark.

At the same time, I heard myself screa­ming a gut­tu­ral noise I’ve never heard myself make before. I lea­ped up set­ting (thro­wing really) your baby sis­ter, blan­ket and all onto the ground as I ran to your rescue.

I’ve never been so sca­red in my life. And frankly, neither had you. You were gushing blood from your mouth. I was hol­ding you as tightly as I could.

Men ran from all edges of the park, offe­ring their shirts, their cars, anything and everything to help you. The man who pushed the merry-go-round loo­ked as if he was going to throw up. He felt so awful.

I didn’t know what to do, so I called Daddy (our resi­dent hero). He rushed, at mock speed, from down­town to to the park. From there we took your sis­ter to Grandma’s house and you to the hospital.

It turns out that all that you were very lucky that day. Your tooth was sho­ved back up into your gums and a bit chip­ped. Yes, only one tooth. Amazing.

That night you remem­ber daddy tur­ning on a siren in front of Grandma’s house and Grandma having a fit.

I had for­got­ten this part of the story until I heard you recount it in March.

We’ve been visi­ting the den­tist every few months expec­ting to have that poor tooth of yours pulled. But you know what? Just weeks ago, it began to fall back into place.

Now that is pretty cool!

Although this story is one that I’ll remem­ber for a life­time, and we’ll laugh about as we tell it to your future spouse, I’ll also remem­ber this year as the year you tran­si­tio­ned from baby/toddler, to little boy.

You are quite a kid.

You never stop talking.

You are very curious and extre­mely respectful.

You always say, please, thank you and give end­less compliments.

You are cons­tantly thin­king, remem­be­ring, and asking ques­tions about everything.

You never, ever stop talking.

Ever.

But I sup­pose I wouldn’t have it any other way. You are my son. And I am proud of you.

Happy Birth­day BC!

Love,

Mommy