Fifty-four (54!) months with Alvie Bean

Dearest Bean,

I kinda think I might need to demand a maternity test. Although there are times when I’m positive you’re my kid (your favorite food is a grilled cheese sandwich and you tripped and did a header into a shelf of wine, breaking 11 bottles with your skull), there are other times I’m just not so sure.

Last weekend, we were cleaning your room and I said you needed to pick five things to put in the give away box.

You chose five books. Four of which were Caldecott Medal winners (I would’ve chosen the airplane book clearly written for a much younger child or the random book on Greek festivals that is not only for someone much older, but also extremely out of date and poorly written). You also told me you’re not going to learn how to read because “it takes too much time.”

It's no wonder when these are the books I give him, right? (Oct 2014)

It’s no wonder when these are the books I give him, right? (Oct 2014)

This is deeply disturbing. You may not know this about me, but I read. I like reading. It’s my favorite hobby. I’ve been reading to you since before you were born, and every night before bed we read a story. (We used to read three, but your books are much longer now that we’ve graduated from Boynton.) The only nights you don’t get stories are the nights you either fall asleep unexpectedly soon or the nights you’re possessed by sloth demons and can’t get yourself ready for bed in a reasonable amount of time. (That second happens so seldomly – I think only when you forgets that mama never makes threats she doesn’t intend to keep and story skipping is definitely my last resort.)

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The only thing in the universe that matters now is Pokemon. I know a lot more about Pokemon than I ever thought possible.

 

This morning, you disowned me because I wouldn’t let you watch Pokemon before going to school. You seemed shocked that I didn’t immediately capitulate. I told you that since I was no longer your mother, that meant I didn’t have to share my tv, or my internet, or my cheese with you anymore. There were tears. I won ex-mom of the year. (I have since been brought back into the family.)

Weirdest family ever.

Weirdest family ever.

You are four and a half. Other than the reading part (and the part where you’re four and a half, which OMG! Why doesn’t the quest for independence and the strong personality development happen the second you leave for college? Can’t you just be agreeable and pliable and do everything I ask until you move out and need to think for yourself?) you’re really a great kid. You’re so kind to others – especially those smaller than yourself and you love helping.

He is a shockingly good carrot peeler.

He is a shockingly good carrot peeler.

You’re affectionate and smart and funny (although maybe not quite as funny as you think you are). You never, ever stop talking. Ever. EVER.

Well, maybe occasionally.

Well, maybe occasionally.

You’re stubborn and charming and determined. You are easily frustrated when things aren’t easy and I fear this will be the biggest challenge you face as a developing human, because DUDE! I feel you. (And seriously, socks can be difficult.)

You have the capability of making me seethe with anger like no one else and can make my heart feel too full seconds later when you look at me and say, “I love you to the sun and the moon and back, mommy. I will love you until you die. And then I will still love you when you’re dead.”

"I'm dead, mommy. I don't have to go to bed tonight."

“I’m dead, mommy. I don’t have to go to bed tonight.”

You’ve been waking up in the middle of the night and wanting to crawl into bed with me. I probably allow it more often than I should, because I’m tired, too, and it’s the path of least resistance. I’d like you to start sleeping through the night again, though. Every night. That would be great.

I document a lot of sleeping to remind myself that it really does happen.

I document a lot of sleeping to remind myself that it really does happen.

You are a bundle of heart and feelings (and dirt) and I am so thankful that you’re mine. You challenge me constantly (and sometimes literally – we have a lot of weaponry about). You make me want to be a better person so I can be the best mom for you.

"I will take our selfie, Mommy."

“I will take our selfie, Mommy.”

Love you to the sun and the moon and back forever and two days.

Mommy.

4 responses to “Fifty-four (54!) months with Alvie Bean

  1. Adorable! Still totally adorable.

  2. My mother used to say that the only times I wasn’t talking was when I was eating and when I was sleeping. Sounds like your Bean. She also said that it was my ability to say one awesomely witty thing a day that saved her from doing away with me altogether. He might have that one down as well 🙂 Kids. They are amazing, aren’t they?