Allison, it never fails. The second I get done writing your letter, I think of a million things I left out. The only way for me to avoid this problem is to write about all of the little anecdotes as they happen, but then it would be your blog, not mine.
I guess I'll just have to wait until you turn 5 and you're ready to carve out your own space on the Web.
Wait. Is that too old? Did I just insult your generation?
You'll probably be blogging before you're potty trained.
Regardless, here are a few more tidbits from this month:
It finally snowed enough to take you sledding a few weeks ago, and
you didn't disappoint. We took you to PA grandma's house and pushed
you down the little incline in her back yard. You stuck your tongue out,
squealed and even raised your arms into the air as you flew.
This photo encapsulates this month: You running around, carrying
your crap EVERYWHERE. Sorry. I know. Bunny and Bear make
the world go round. They are reason enough to draw air every day.
Please ignore the plastic bags attached to the doorhandles. It's how
I stay organized. Crap to go downstairs. Crap to go to the attic.
I promise Bunny and Bear will not ever become contents of them.
Dad thought he would be very funny and put you in
a pillowcase while we were making the bed. Then
he picked you up inside it and now you're probably
wondering when we get to change the sheets again.
Yeah. Not for a while. Mama loves flannel in winter.
When you chucked Toby's bone inside the laundry basket, the two
of you pondered how to get it out for awhile, pacing and whining for
me to rescue it from its plastic prison. But I wanted to see how it
played out, so I didn't. Then you shoved the basket over and crawled
in. Toby, being too much of a pussy to even think about it, was much
obliged. You can consider it repayment for all the times you poke
at his eye sockets and grab at the hair surrounding his sphincter.
- Earlier this month while Dad and I were putting the groceries away, you snuck into the fridge and pulled out an apple. You're enamored with the fridge. Wish you could live inside it, curled up next to the grapes. When we realized it was entirely too quiet and neither one of us had a small child attached to our pants, we started looking for you. By then? YOU HAD EATEN ALMOST THE ENTIRE THING. But that's okay. When I looked back in the fridge, there was your little dollhouse baby sitting on the shelf. Apparently you left him as payment. Way to be considerate.
- Your love of music is infectious. I could watch you dance all day long, and apparently I'm not alone. When we went to the mall so Dad could return the horrendous mistake of a present I got for him for Christmas, we tried to make do without your stroller, which was accidentally left at PA grandma's house. So we set you down a lot to give our arms a break, and you reveled at the chance to explore a little. Except when we got to Express where the music was pouring out of the speakers like a dance club. As soon as you heard the beat, you started your thing right in the middle of the entryway -- bouncing, nodding and otherwise being completely adorable. From all the attention you received, I wished I could've convinced Dad to take off his hat and start taking collections. We could've paid your entire college tuition. ALL FOUR YEARS.