Month Twenty-Six
Dear Jasper,
Today you are twenty-six months old. If you don’t want to do the math, that means you’re two years and two months old. I personally hope you had no problem doing the math, since it’s pretty easy math. In fact, if you’re reading this and you’re all “Thanks, Mom, for laying it out for me because I really wasn’t feeling like working it out on my own,” you need to shut off the computer and study your math.
This last month has been, like so many are, tremendous. You’re speaking actual sentences now, you can hold conversations and keep the same train of thought going. You laugh when other people laugh, and you’re learning that it’s not always polite to interrupt other conversations. However, you’re also aware of the fact that we like to ask your opinion on things. And, you know, you’re two, so you pretty much interject whatever you want into most conversations that happen around you.
You’ve learned that a request that begins or ends with “please” will get you everywhere in this house, which also explains why Ra Ra (Stephen) keeps finding himself reading books to you five minutes after he wakes up and comes downstairs. Every. Single. Morning. It’s awfully hard to resist a little two-year-old dude who is walking up to you, saying “Read book please, read book please” and looking all hungry for knowledge that you can provide, you know.
Last weekend while I was working (oh, you’re so sweet when I have to leave to go to shoot a wedding or work, always waving with a “Bye, Mama!”), your dad took you to work with him for a few hours. He had to set up the sound for a Bangladeshi performance that was taking place. Since there was going to be lots of singing and dancing, he figured you’d dig it. Turns out, he was completely right. There was also a square dance competition going on nearby that he had to check on, and you guys went back and forth between the two. It was on this day that you learned the word “show” and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me so GIDDY that you associate “show” with a performance, like going out to see a show, instead of with something you see on television. It also makes me giddy to think about one day in the maybe-not-too-distant future we can do things like take you to other performances and shows, and in the more-distant future, to ballet or theater productions.
In fact, last night we took you to another show — your dad was working at a preschool graduation and we thought you’d think it was fun. It turns out you did — you were all about clapping and dancing and singing while the kids were on stage — but you really loved what happened after everyone left. We let you get on-stage, and you immediately ran up to a microphone (“mike-phooone”), grabbed it with one hand, and started singing into it. Your dad turned the microphone and the stage lights on, along with “Hakuna Matata,” and you proceeded to “sing” along (you mostly sang “TATATA” over and over again) in between dancing spurts. I daresay there’s a bit of a performer in you, kid.
I’d like to commend you on how you’ve handled The Sid Situation. Not too long ago, we were letting you watch Sid the Science Kid three or four times a day — basically with every meal. We knew this wasn’t healthy, because it encourages pretty rotten eating habits, but you love Sid so much that we felt evil trying to take it away. However, it dawned on us that four times a day is over an hour of TV that you’re watching, so we switched it up. Now, we all three sit together and watch one episode before breakfast. Every so often you and I will cuddle after you wake up from your nap and watch fifteen or so minutes of Curious George 2 — because you, friend, are a gigantic Curious George fan.
The Curious George is hilarious and wonderfully sweet. We bought you a collection of Curious George stories when we were living in Portland and you were in the NICU — it was the one and only time that your did and I decided to go out at night while you were staying in the hospital. We had absolutely no reason to pick George — neither of us could remember being gigantic fans — and the book sat on the shelf for the first twenty-two or so months of your life. One day someone pulled it down, and we started reading. Since then, an entire world of Curious George has been opened up to you, to the point that your dad and I regularly contemplate driving ten hours so you can go to a Curious George exhibit at a museum, or spend a good bit of time looking for free episodes online. You have several Curious George books now, and every day before you nap, I sing a song to you about how Curious George and The Man in the Yellow Hat like to ride on buses.
The songs are actually something I also want to note — your naptime songs are so crazy right now. Every day when we sit in the rocking chair after reading four or five stories and books, you say “George, Man, Hat, pink, bus” or something along those lines, and I begin singing about how George likes to ride on a pink bus, the Man in the Yellow Hat likes to ride on a pink bus, Jasper likes to ride on a pink bus, Mama likes to ride on a pink bus…and so on, until we’ve named everyone that you know. This doesn’t just include people you’ve met — you ask me to sing about “Big George” (George Harrison), “Baby George” (Dhani Harrison, who you learned about in the car one day while we were listening to Fistful of Mercy), and “Bob,” who is Bob Dylan. Sometimes you ask me to sing about Bob’s red shoes (I have no idea if he has red shoes) or Baby George’s purple bus. After we go through this song a time or two, we switch to the alphabet. I have NO IDEA how singing the alphabet became the thing that puts you to sleep during the day, but it is and it does.
You’re showing us that you’re more grown up in so many ways. A few weeks ago we took you to a dimly-lit Thai restaurant — at night — and you sat through an entire forty-five (or so) minute meal without raising a fuss. We were nervous, because every other time we’ve tried to take you into a semi-swanky establishment you’ve ended up throwing food in some stranger’s hair, but you ate your rice and your tofu (which you call “SOY CHEESE!!!” with gusto) and were incredibly polite the entire time. I don’t know where I’m really going with this other than to say: thanks for that one. We needed that food, dude.
I love you I love you I love you. I love all twenty-six months of you.
Love,
Mama
Today you are twenty-six months old. If you don’t want to do the math, that means you’re two years and two months old. I personally hope you had no problem doing the math, since it’s pretty easy math. In fact, if you’re reading this and you’re all “Thanks, Mom, for laying it out for me because I really wasn’t feeling like working it out on my own,” you need to shut off the computer and study your math.
This last month has been, like so many are, tremendous. You’re speaking actual sentences now, you can hold conversations and keep the same train of thought going. You laugh when other people laugh, and you’re learning that it’s not always polite to interrupt other conversations. However, you’re also aware of the fact that we like to ask your opinion on things. And, you know, you’re two, so you pretty much interject whatever you want into most conversations that happen around you.
I’d like to commend you on how you’ve handled The Sid Situation. Not too long ago, we were letting you watch Sid the Science Kid three or four times a day — basically with every meal. We knew this wasn’t healthy, because it encourages pretty rotten eating habits, but you love Sid so much that we felt evil trying to take it away. However, it dawned on us that four times a day is over an hour of TV that you’re watching, so we switched it up. Now, we all three sit together and watch one episode before breakfast. Every so often you and I will cuddle after you wake up from your nap and watch fifteen or so minutes of Curious George 2 — because you, friend, are a gigantic Curious George fan.
The Curious George is hilarious and wonderfully sweet. We bought you a collection of Curious George stories when we were living in Portland and you were in the NICU — it was the one and only time that your did and I decided to go out at night while you were staying in the hospital. We had absolutely no reason to pick George — neither of us could remember being gigantic fans — and the book sat on the shelf for the first twenty-two or so months of your life. One day someone pulled it down, and we started reading. Since then, an entire world of Curious George has been opened up to you, to the point that your dad and I regularly contemplate driving ten hours so you can go to a Curious George exhibit at a museum, or spend a good bit of time looking for free episodes online. You have several Curious George books now, and every day before you nap, I sing a song to you about how Curious George and The Man in the Yellow Hat like to ride on buses.
I love you I love you I love you. I love all twenty-six months of you.
Love,
Mama
