Dear Libby 7

Seven. Seven? Seven. I just keep looking at you and saying it over and over again. At first, you thought it was funny, but by now, I think it’s become annoying to keep catching your mother gazing wistfully at you with tears dotting her eyes when you’re just trying to find the latest EthanGamer video on YouTube. Sorry, kid. I just can’t believe it’s been seven whole years since you came into my life and changed every single aspect of it. I can’t believe you’re so old that you really don’t need me for much anymore (I mean, I still give you food and shelter and all that, but I can remember a time when you needed my help just to sit upright, so excuse me if the idea of a world where you can pick out your own outfits—and serve me legit pushback when I disagree with your choices—seems a bit bonkers to me). 

That’s your favorite sweater. It’s white so luckily it never ever gets anything spilled on it. 

As I write this, you’re sitting at your desk working on math homework. You spend a lot of time on schoolwork these days, as first grade has you reading, writing and bringing home library books you choose simply to mess with me and dad (subjects have included snakes, head lice and more snakes). It’s been amazing to watch that inquisitive mind of yours at work though I have to admit, keeping pace with you is impossible. The sheer volume of questions you ask me on a daily basis is staggering and all I can say is thank God for Google because most of the time, my answer would be, “I have no earthly clue. Ummmm…..ask dad.” You have figured out how to use an iPad and Alexa so that helps and as your reading skills improve, I suspect Wikipedia is going to become your new best friend. 

Speaking of the iPad, it has become your favorite downtime activity. You have approximately 9,000 apps, most of which are dedicated to giving unicorns makeovers. You have some word games and some streaming channels. But your favorite online activity is, by far, watching other kids play on their own devices. You will lose hours of your life to seeing how EthanGamer gets away from the machete-wielding pig in Roblox. You devote multiple viewings to a video of a child you’ve never met unwrapping birthday presents. Most of these videos have millions of views, and yet, while I don’t fully understand this phenomenon, I’m basically OK with it. I mean, I can remember watching Pee-wee’s Playhouse every Saturday morning so I know kids tend to like things adults simply don’t get. And I know you don’t know what Pee-wee’s Playhouse is. Ask Alexa. 

Few sentiments have ever resonated more with me.

EthanGamer is not, however, the most important Ethan in your life. That would be your classmate of three years now, who lives just down the street and is your absolute BFF 4EVA OMG. Ethan is your bestie but as you frequently remind me, you have big plans that extend far beyond the confines of elementary school. You two plan to marry and move to Florida so you can be close to Disney World (I mean, I get it). Where are you planning to get enough money to support your Mouse habit? By being online influencers, of course. I totally support this vision, as my retirement plan involves me selling keychains outside Hogwarts Castle in Universal Studios dressed like an aged Harry Potter character every day, so as long as you don’t mind park hopping from time to time, we’ll stay close. 

The good news is if the YouTube star plan doesn’t pan out, you have a solid backup. You love art and have told me many times (in non-Ethan related conversations) that you plan to become a famous artist one day. This is also something I support as I know how much joy you find in drawing pictures, making cards and mastering new skills. Blank paper is a commodity in this house, as any scrap is fair game for becoming part of your latest creation. You have started drawing mainly at the desk in the dining room your use for doing homework but you occasionally still use Art Show, which is what you've always called the beloved little easel desk you got for Christmas four years ago that still resides in our living room. Your brother has started to monopolize Art Show a bit, but I’ll always think of it as the exact spot where your budding career began. 

Your Valentines to Dad and me this year. Hallmark, eat your heart out.

I also know that no matter whatever life brings your way, you’ll continue to carry that remarkable inner light that shines everywhere you go. You simply radiate, kid. Your heart is so full of love and positivity, it’s impossible to keep it all inside. You show kindness freely and without hesitation. You care about the people around you and expect others to do the same. That genuine, consistent empathy is what I love most about you and in my attempt to emulate it, I’ve become a better person myself. 

I simply couldn’t love you more or be more proud to be your mother. You make me happy every day. You are my sun and my sky. 

Love, 

Mummy

Dear Lukey 3

Dear Lukey,

Happy birthday, my love! Can I offer you some Gris? Or some Yo Yo? No? 

Oh God. I just used your least favorite word ever: no. Don’t freak out! Deep breaths! I’ll start over!

Happy birthday! You are three today (how?!) and I’m going to remind you of some of the things you love SO MUCH and….let’s say, some things you love a smidge less at this point in your life. 

LOVE

Gris, a.k.a. Sprite. I let myself have one Sprite every day with my lunch. I drink it from a cup with a straw. Correction: I used to drink one Sprite every day with my lunch from a cup with a straw. From the first day you pointed at it, looked at me with those Kewpie doll eyes and said, “Sip?” I have not been able to drink Sprite at lunch. Or any time you’re conscious. It’s cute because you refuse to say the word “Sprite” and instead call it “Gris.” It’s less cute because, I mean...I want some Gris. 

Bluey and Muppet Babies. I can’t say which one of your two favorite TV shows gets top billing because I never know. You’ll wake up from a nap, blurry-eyed with the imprint of your crocheted blankie blaring on your red cheeks. I’ll snuggle you close, take a deep breath, and hope to God I’m correctly suggesting the thing you want to watch based on the thing you asked me for 37 times in a row over the previous few hours. I’ll hold my breath, whisper “Muppet Babies?” then duck and cover as you screech “BLUEY!!!!!!!” and burst into uncontrollable tears for the next foreseeable future. (Sidenote: you call Bunsen and Beaker “BossyBeagle” and it makes me so so happy.)

Wrestling ( in real life, not on TV. Yet). Every day at 2:34 p.m., I hug you close, kiss your cheeks, and tell you goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, sighing deeply and fighting tears. That’s because every day, at 2:35 p.m., your sister comes home from school and the sweet, lovey, calm boy I just spent the entire day snuggling morphs into The Hulk...if The Hulk was possessed by a demon...who had recently been set on fire...IN HELL. The only outlet for your newfound rage is to beat the ever-loving life out of Libby, who, God bless her, only wants to have a snack and chill on her damn iPad. This does not sit well with you -- being an aflame Hulk demon and all -- and you attempt to tackle, kick, punch, and Hurricanrana your poor, weary Sis until she cries and I scream and you cry and I cry on the inside (or sometimes in the pantry). You also do this thing to Dad and me from time to time, when you get right up in our grills, nose to nose, and menacingly whisper something we can only decipher as, “You No Say.” We have no idea what it means, but we suspect it’s something along the lines of, “Shit’s about to go DOWN.” It’s both terrifying and adorable. BTW, if you ever take your dad’s love of the WWE to the next level and decide you want to be in the ring, you can totally steal the whole demon-possessed Hulk character idea. The “on fire” thing might be tricky, but I’m envisioning flame-patterned spandex. You can even use one of your current nicknames: Lukey Smash!

This is how you like to wind down each night.

Pizza/yo yo, or "yogurt"/ fruit cups: These are your favorite foods in the world and you eat them almost every day, multiple times a day. You down a side of yo yo with every breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes, yo yo is breakfast, lunch and dinner. It makes a perfect bedtime snack. It’s nice after naps. Basically, if any nutritionist out there is doing a study to find out if a human can exist on a yogurt-only diet, you are living proof that that is indeed possible. Pretty much the same for fruit cups. I can work all day on a meal of tossed salad, fresh bread, roast chicken with all the sides, and homemade pie, and you will take one look at it, then with hope in your voice, ask, “fruit cup?” Your relationship with pizza is more love/hate. You love when it’s around and hate when it’s not, meaning we cannot even say the word “pizza” in our own home because if you hear the word and a slice is not immediately produced, you lose your damn mind. For now, we call it “P-word,” though I suspect you are close to cracking our code, sophisticated as it may be. I have nearly thrown my arm out of its socket lunging for the remote to switch the channel when Pizza Hut commercials come on. I have a feeling delivery drivers will know us by name by this time next year. 

Haircuts: This is a new one because up until your last haircut, I had to physically restrain you as if I was The Rock and you were John Cena circa 2012-13 WWE. There was flailing; there were tears -- with us, not with The Rock and John Cena, though I never really watched their matches so maybe, IDK (your father is twitching right now). You would sit on my lap in the waiting area and sob, “Go home? Go home? Go home?” over and over again until my heart shattered into so many pieces, I was sure I would clutch you to my chest and rush to the door, shouting, “Not my son! NOT MY SON!” a la some Lifetime movie I have not seen yet but would gladly write on spec (potential title: Clipped from My Grip). But then, on our most recent visit, you sat calmly on my lap in the waiting room, just kinda looking around and taking it all in. Then, when Miss Leigh Ann said she was ready for you, you hopped off my lap, strode to the barber chair, climbed up onto the booster seat and sat still for the entire thing. I watched, mouth agape, waiting with a Dum-Dum in one hand and Disney+ on my phone in the other, ready to shove one or both in your face the second your inevitable meltdown ignited. It never happened. How? Or why? Or how? I have no idea, and neither did Miss Leigh Ann, who looked at me aghast after she was done cutting, cocked her head to one side, and said, “Can I….style him?” to which I took two steps back and held my hands up, stick-em-up style, and said, “That’s up to you.” She approached you much like a person would approach a monkey holding a loaded 9mm -- with extreme caution and apprehension, stopping every few movements to instinctively cover her head. You let her and when she was done, you looked just like the high school quarterback who’s looking for a nerdy girl to makeover in some terrible late ‘90s movie (probably one that I loved at the time but would cringe if my daughter saw now). 

You would definitely be the popular kid who realized by the end of the movie that he never even really wanted to play college sports but instead wanted to pursue his passion of making furniture out of used lacrosse sticks or something. 

THINGS YOU LOVE NOT SO MUCH

The word “no.” 

That’s it. Just the one thing. You hate it with fervor beyond human comprehension, yet it’s something you find yourself contending with on an extremely frequent basis. The following is a typical scenario that occurs roughly every 17 minutes in our home:

You: *throws something across the room that barely misses our sleeping dog*

Me: “Lukey, N-”

You: EEEIIIIIIAAAAAAA! WAAAAHHHHH!!!! 

Me (attempting to remain rational and reasonable): Luke, you almost hurt Wilson. You can’t just throw things

You: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *smacks the couch while maintaining direct eye contact with me*

Me (failing at being rational and reasonable and using a full banshee voice while shoving my face one inch from yours): STOP IT RIGHT NOW! 

You: 

Me: OK?

You: OK. 

*Repeat forever

You are learning, however, that there are ways you can avoid the evil no word. Let’s say you want to watch your 589th episode of Bluey for the day. I say no because if I watch it for one more second, I’m going to toss the TV off the deck. You pout, but I ignore it. The next thing I know, you’ve climbed up on my lap, your head is on my shoulder, your hands are holding mine, and you look up at me with those dreamy blue eyes, and whisper so faintly that I have to lean in. When I do, you utter one word: “pwease?” 

The next thing I know, Bluey is on the TV, you’re back to playing with your toys and I have no recollection of the previous 30 seconds. 

Kudos, child. It only took you three years to figure me out. Because when it comes to my Woo-key (which is how you introduce yourself because you can’t say L’s and I die every time), you’ve got my number. You also have my heart. And I know everyone says three can be even worse then two and I’m sure that’s true (though...how?! **I have a feeling future me will read this and laugh and laugh**) but I’m still excited for what the next year brings as you continue to grow into the person you will become. If today is any indication, that person will be super funny, super lovey, and super sure of what he wants in this world. 

I love you now and then and forever, 

Mommy

Dear Libby 6

Hello, My Gorgeous Girl,

This week, we registered Luke for preschool. The same preschool where you went and led all its teachers to expect LaBars to be patient, subservient goody two shoes. 

(Insert image of Luke laughing maniacally here)

I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, “Wait, isn’t this my annual birthday letter? Why are we talking about Luke right off the bat? All we do is talk about Luke. He gets everything! Gaaah!!!!” And you would be right. But I started this way to get to this: your former teacher, who was overseeing registration, asked how you were doing in kindergarten. When Dad replied, “Great!” she had a follow-up.

“Is she still helping everyone?” 

“What do you mean?” Dad asked. 

“When she was in my class, I always sat her next to a student who I thought might need a little extra help or encouragement," she said. "She was so great about sensing when someone needed her. She is such a good helper.”

I honestly can’t think of a more accurate way to describe you. I mean, I might add a few other attributes: boundless empath, energetic goofball, endlessly patient (for the most part) big sister. But the part of your personality that I have adored so much since you were small continues to shine through in you every day. You are always thinking of others and how you can make them feel happy, safe, and loved. 

God knows we need all of that kind of positivity we can get these days. It’s been a rough year, girl. We are in the middle (maybe the end? Please, God, let it be nearly the end) of a pandemic that brought your second year of preschool to an abrupt early end and made the start of kindergarten more about social distancing and hand sanitizer than noisy cafeterias and Red Rover. Yet that did very little to hamper your excitement.

Who was ready for kindergarten? This girl. 

Even in a mask, I can tell your facial expression says, “God, Mo-om! Leave me alone. I’m tryna get on the bus. GOD!”

Regardless of things being a little unconventional, you can’t get enough school. You love learning. You love your teacher. You love riding the bus. But most of all, above every single other aspect of anything to do with the educational system in this country, you love Jonah. 

Jonah has been the main focus of your attention since the day you were seated next to him in class. In our “keep six feet away from anything that breathes” society, that meant he was the closest person you had to talk to, to laugh with, and ultimately, to envision an entire future with. You would come home every day and doodle in your sketchbooks image after image of you two dancing or holding hands with thought bubbles full of hearts and happy faces. Some took your love story to a whole level. They say a picture speaks a thousand words, so I will just leave a particularly interesting one that you drew right here. 

That’s exactly what I looked like pregnant.

Girlfriend, I have never, ever in my more than a decade with your father, seen him rendered utterly speechless until the moment you handed him this drawing. He was flabbergasted, dumbfounded, downright gobsmacked. It was hilarious. 

And while Jonah seems to return at least some level of your infatuation, sadly, he is not the boy in this world who loves you the absolute most. That distinction lies solidly with your brother. 

I have never seen another person more in awe of another human than Lukey is with you. Everything you do, he wants to do. Everything you say, he parrots. Everywhere you go, he goes. Every toy you want to play with, he wants too, often at the exact same time. 

Writing this all out makes it suddenly very apparent why the relationship is more than slightly one-sided. I mean, you clearly love him. You give him hugs and let him wrestle you and chase you and dance and sing and laugh and scream and drive me crazy with you. But I often catch you shooting me a “OK now make this stop” look that only an elder sibling can understand. If you two are anything like me and my brother, this phase will last for a few more years, followed by a few years of intense, raging hatred (ask Uncle Eric about the time I maimed him on a plane to Phoenix. Or the time he lifted a Power Wheel convertible over his head Hulk-style and launched it into my legs. True stories), followed by a general acceptance, followed by one of the closest friendships of your life. I promise—just give it two decades, three tops, and you’ll be ready to reciprocate all the love he feels toward you right now. 

Speaking of growing older, I cannot believe how independent and self-sufficient you are becoming at the ripe old age of 6. Every day, it seems like you need me less and less and I need you more and more. You help me every day with Luke. You are my assistant in the kitchen. You create beautiful artwork that makes me smile and nearly always ends up on the fridge so I can admire it again and again. Basically, you’re always finding new ways to fill my life with love and joy, just as you always have. You never stop amazing me, and you never will. 

I love you more than you can know,

Mom

 

Dear Lukey 2

Happy birthday, my little man! What a year it has been for my mischievous monkey. You're at the phase right now when you do something new every single day. Lately, that's been most evident in your vocabulary, which has expanded to about 50 or so words, about 30 percent of which I can make out on first listen. You're very polite and aren't stingy with a "Dant Doo" (thank you) and "Saw-wee" (sorry). You call Goofy "Foofy" and waffles "faffles." You say "cookie" perfectly (and often). You do, however, have a few sayings no one can figure out. Occasionally, you'll look me dead in the eye and insist "beaglebeaglebeaglebeaglebeagle." I have no idea what this means but whatever it is, it's urgent. It can't be that important though because I have never once responded to this in a manner that satisfies you and you eventually get fed up and let it go. No clue. You also just recently started saying, "This is-is so," usually when you want to share something with someone. I think you might be going for, "This is for you." Maybe? When your sister was this age, she followed me around for a week screaming, "PANTSUIT!" until I realized she was saying "PETTING ZOO," so who knows? 

With all this new chatting, your personality is emerging like crazy. We affectionately call you Frank the Tank (a nod to the classic movie "Old School" stolen 100 percent from our friends who have a son your exact age that shares many of your...endearing...characteristics). You're basically the really happy stumbling drunk at every frat party. You stump around the house, looking for things to amuse yourself (or, more frequently, to eat) and just want to talk to everyone and hang out and have fun. And much like Frank who's all about streaking, you prefer to be naked. 

This is your future. 

Some things have not changed. You still love your sleep and your food — all food, though pizza (which you called pete-zee for an adorable couple of months) reigns supreme. You can crush half a pie no problem and still ask for more (another one of your new favorite words). The only thing you love more than food and sleep is your sister. Libby is like another limb to you. Where she goes, you go. What she does, you do. If she’s at school, you ask me where she is every eight minutes. If she goes to the bathroom, you ask where she is every eight seconds. And while she occasionally complains when you steal her toys (or, far worse, her spotlight) I suspect the feeling is mutual.

The other top contenders for your heart are animated. You start asking to watch “Muppet Babies” (which you call “Mupp-Bebe”) the second you open your eyes in the morning and continue asking all day long. There are about 30 episodes and I can easily recite the dialogue verbatim and sing every lyric of every song. Libby often unconsciously mouths along with the script while she’s watching with you. When a new episode is released (once every never it seems) it’s cause for legit celebration in the LaBar household. Your second favorite show, if you can call it that, is “Little Baby Bum,” a never-ending loop of nursery rhymes sung by British children voicing characters that include barnyard animals who, terrifyingly, are the exact same size as the humans. Lib was into this for a while and I was just so, so happy when she wasn’t anymore. Alas, I am once again a slave to the Bum. You also got seriously into "Frozen II" for a hot second and like to belt out "Into the Unknown" at full voice complete with your own choreography. You absolutely outshine Elsa. 

You rode a plane and went to Disney World with the family for the first time this year. You loved spending time with everyone and splashing in the pool at the house. However, you spent most of the time at the parks like this:

Not a bad situation, if you ask me.

You did perk up when it was time to meet some of your favorite characters though:

That’s a look of pure love if I’ve ever seen one.

You also went to Ocean City for the first time, where you again really dug all the family time (and quite a few holes in the sand) but generally preferred chillin’ in the baby pool at the giant basecamp we’d set up on the beach.

Miserable. Like always.

You got your first haircut, courtesy of Aunt Kim. I expected tears but you barely flinched throughout the entire thing. The tears did come, however, courtesy of me. 

Why are you 40?

While I wish I could say life is all “Baby Bum” and pizza as we start your third year on this planet, the truth is things are really weird right now. Coronavirus has brought life to a bit of a standstill while we all are in quarantine and practicing social distancing, meaning you don’t get to do a lot of your favorite things like play in the park, go out to eat, or hug your extended family. But there has been a bright spot in the middle of all this uncertainty. Because he’s working from home, you’ve been able to spend more time with Daddy than ever. It’s been amazing to watch your bond grow as you seek him out throughout the day and crawl up into his lap or pat the floor next to you while you’re playing and demand he “SIT!” with you. You’re such a mini version of him, and I can tell you both love your new role as his official sidekick.

It just goes to show that you have a way of bringing joy to every situation. You make us all laugh constantly. You’re super affectionate and lovey. You are just so fun and sweet, and I’m so lucky I get to see that every day. I can’t wait to see what Frank gets up to in the coming year. 

Love,

Mummy

Dear Libby 5

You likely will notice that this note is dated well past your birthday. Please accept my apologies but life these days, as you may or may not be aware of, is BUSY. Between your school and my work and daily errands and daddy’s job and all the time I spend wrangling your brother and making sure you both don’t burn the house down every day, things move fast. So fast that I can hardly believe I’m writing you another one of these letters.

They say for stay-at-home moms, the days are long but the years are short, and Babe, this might have been the shortest one yet. You simply can’t be five. Five means official big kid status. Five means you need me for so much less. Five means full-day kindergarten in the fall. Five means my days as Mama are over and I’m now Mom (for you at least - Luke still calls me Mummy, which I hope is what you both settle on. I’ll even take Mum, which is what I called your grandma. Mom just sounds like it’s begging for an extra syllable to accentuate your inevitable annoyance with me - Mo-om).

It’s been another year of firsts. You had your first haircut shortly after your last birthday when washing your down-the-back curls and subsequently yanking the knots out of them became more than you could tolerate without an intolerable deal of whining. Aunt Kimmy did the honors and by the time she was done, you went from a bouncy haired toddler to a 26-year-old grad school student.

Which way to the quad?

We also took our first trip to Disney as a family this year, which, zero surprise here, you LOVED. You got to spend the week meeting princesses, all of whom you treated like your long lost besties, play with Abby and Kaitlyn and swim every day. You did not, however, love the rides. Daddy decided the best way to ease you into the whole ride situation was to toss you onto a roller coaster right out the gate. Also to no one’s surprise (other than Daddy’s) The Seven Dwarfs Mine Train scared the bejesus out of you and guaranteed you wouldn’t step foot on another ride for the rest of the trip. But that just meant more princess time, some of which was spent transforming you into a royal as well. The fairies at the Bippity Boppity Boutique turned you into a Libby-fied version of Rapunzel and if the experience taught me anything, it’s that you are perfectly at home in the makeup chair and in front of a camera. You turned to me after your photoshoot and simply said, “I loved that.” It showed, Kid.

We also went to Ocean City with the fam again this year, and you were much more into the ocean than you were last time. It wasn’t your favorite thing, but it was no Seven Dwarfs Mine Train. Your favorite part was playing with your cousins (which is pretty much your favorite part of life in general) and hanging at the minicamp the fam sets up on the sand snacking on treats and getting in touch with your inner Ariel.

The rest of the year was spent with all the aforementioned running around and craziness of day-to-day life and honestly, I couldn’t have done any of it without you. You have become such a big help to me in so many ways, most notably when it comes to your little brother. Luke is...spirited (I think that’s the acceptable way to say “prone to demon possession”) and you really help rein him in. You play with him, sing to him, fetch things for him, and generally help keep both him and me sane as we navigate this at-times tricky stage of life. In turn, he ADORES you. The first thing he asks for in the morning is his “Sissy” and if you happen to be at school, he inquires as to your whereabouts roughly every eight minutes until you come home. He wants to do everything you do and follow you everywhere you go. And 80 to 85 percent of the time, you’re really great about appeasing him. The other 20 to 15 percent accounts for all that screaming you’ll likely remember me doing when you look back on these days.

Basically, the only thing that seems to stay the same from year to year is your amazing kindness, boundless empathy and genuine joy for the life you live and for all those around you. You always have had an innate ability to make everyone feel loved and special, and I absolutely marvel when watching your capacity for love grow as you do from year to year. You make my life more fun and more beautiful every single day, and I love you more than you can imagine.

Xoxo,

Mum

Dear Lukey

Hello, Monkey. Or my Luke-A-Doo. Or, if dad is talking to you, Luke the Duke of Spitstown. And finally, at times, Lukey Dukey Oh So Pukey.

You go by a lot of names around here - though never, ever Lucas unless you want to see dad shoot me that look that screams “That’s NOT his name!” for the thousandth time in your one year on this earth. I know, I know. We wanted something simple for you, and given my love of three Lukes throughout my life - Skywalker, Perry (RIP) and Danes - it was an easy choice.

So you’ve got the no muss, no fuss name. You had an easy, very little muss birth.

And that’s about where the notion of “simple” ends with you, bud.

I’ll preface this by saying you have amplified my heart’s capacity for love in a way I never expected, certainly not after having my first kid and thinking, “Huh. Well, that’s the most I’ll ever be capable of love in my life.” You came out, settled into my chest, knocked that theory right out of the room and continue to do so every single second I spend with you.

That being said.

Man alive, have you given me and dad a run for our money. They say second kids are always tougher than their siblings because the first one creates the illusion that this parenting business is a breeze and continuing to populate the earth is the best idea ever. Lib did a bang up job of this. From the minute she came home, she loved her sleep and wanted to be left alone in the comfort of her crib to get it.

You refused to sleep anywhere other than your baby swing, so that meant four months of me sleeping next to you on the couch, waking up every three hours to feed you and countless times in between to make sure you were still breathing. (If any other parents or pediatricians are reading this, yes, I know, letting your baby sleep in a swing is about the worst thing you can possibly do, on par with turning their crib into a giant ball pit and just hoping they can occasionally claw their way to the surface. But it was the only way he would sleep. So it was either the swing with my fear of him suffocating waking me every 10-15 minutes or no sleep for anyone in the house ever. I opted for swing.)

Proof that I did eventually get you to sleep in a crib so no one calls protective services on me. And I know - the blanket. It's crocheted so there are holes should he pull it over his face. Ok? Ok. 

So those first few months were a little rough. I’m not saying you were a bad baby, you were just...let’s go with “not low-maintenance.” You refused to adapt to any kind of routine I tried to force upon you, so I could never bank on a window of Luke-free time. You whined a lot. You demanded my full attention a lot. You spit up A LOT.

But in between all that, boy, did you ever find your own little ways to inject joy into every single day. From the instant you came home, you became enamored with your sister and have worshiped her every moment since.

That's Lib singing in the car and you acting like you're at a concert for the most revered diva in the music biz. 

All she has to do is glance your way and your face twinkles like a firework. She, in turn, treated you with general indifference for the first few months. Really, up until about now. Because now, you are no longer just some chubby lump whose main functions include stealing focus and caterwauling.

Now, you can booty scoot.

That is your main mode of transportation. You’ve clearly decided crawling is not enough of an upper body workout and you’ve taken to dragging yourself from point A to point B. I absolutely love this. Your doctor does not. But listen, you’re also pulling yourself up to stand so I know one day, I’m going to do something like reach for the TV remote and turn around to see your confidently striding up to me. I can just about guarantee it.

I can also guarantee the reason I’ll be reaching for the remote is because you are screeching at me to put on your favorite show. Because you love - no that’s too weak a word - you exist for “Little Baby Bum.” It’s a British cartoon on Netflix in which children and various animals including a cow, pig, sheep and spider (who is, terrifyingly, the same size as the barnyard animals) sing nursery rhymes. That’s it. No plot. No narrator. No nothing other than singing in adorable British accents for hours on end. You would watch this from the minute you wake up until the minute you go to sleep if I let you. And trust me. It’s tempting to let you. It puts you into some kind of trance and allows me to actually get a few things done. Or just sit and breathe. Or calm my mind until all I’m capable of is singing along to the mindless lyrics. Because these aren’t all winners, bud. “Ice cream, ice cream, chocolate ice cream. Ice cream, ice cream, chocolate chip. Ice cream, ice cream, strawberry ice cream.” You get the idea.

Now what else did I want to tell you? Why can’t I think?

“Ice cream, ice cream on a hot day. Ice cream in the month of May!”

Damn you, Baby Bum!

OK, I digress. Listen, you’re incredibly cute. You have giant blue eyes, wispy blonde hair, and THE CHUNKIEST THIGHS OMG on any baby ever. You also have this sausage thing happening where you don’t have a wrist, just arm chunk then chubby hands. I love it so much. I tickle you and pinch you and kiss you and just generally love on you every minute I’m with you.

I mean.

Which might explain why you are the biggest Mummy Sucker on the planet. That’s the term our family uses for babies who cannot function without their mother’s undivided attention and you, my friend, are their king. You are constantly either in my arms or in my lap or pulling at my legs or nuzzled into my chest. You don’t like me to do much of anything other than snuggle you, play with you, and just be all about you you you.

It’s exhausting.

Also, I love it and please never stop. If you love me half as much when you’re grown as you do at this stage of your life, I will consider myself the luckiest mom on the planet.

Because, you know what, bud? The feeling is completely mutual.

Xox,

Mama

Dear Libby 4

I know I say this every year but how - how???? - can you be another year older? Didn't we just have Elsa from "Frozen" here for your third birthday? Now, another one has come and gone - this year with Ariel from "The Little Mermaid" as your requested guest (you made your Mom so proud with that one!) - and you are 4.

You're rapidly leaving your toddler days behind and moving into full Kid status. And, man, do you let me know it. You insist on doing everything on your own, to varying degrees of success. Getting shoes and socks on you can handle. I just make sure I give you a 20-minute heads up before we're leaving and you're typically ready to rock by the time I'm heading out the door. Dressing yourself is still dicey - pants are easy. Shirts - especially hoodies - tend to trap you and you end up with your head encased in the inside-out garment with your arms straight up in the air and belly exposed, traipsing blindly about in search of rescue. Not gonna lie, sometimes I let this go on for a minute until I can compose myself enough to intervene.

You love to help me cook dinner, you set the table, you help with sweeping and dusting, you feed the dog - I've got it made until the day you start demanding allowance.

Hoodie removal aside, you're pretty good at just about anything you try. You love letters and words and are actually pretty skilled at coming up with your own. You still call yourself (and me and dad) Sassabroni daily. You also have a way of mashing up words in a way that totally make sense. If you find something "yummy" and "delicious," you'll call it "yumlicious." Exciting and incredible becomes something like "excredibling." At first, I discouraged this by saying, "That's not a word," until I realized neither were Quidditch or horcrux until J.K. Rowling created them for "Harry Potter," so as far as I'm concerned, go for it.

In all seriousness, everyone you meet tells me how advanced your language skills are. I know it's because you love to read and you listen to everything everyone says. You're at that age where I can't gossip about anyone behind closed doors because I know you will repeat exactly what I said word for word the next time we're around the subject of my dishing.

This photo, to me, sums up your "I got this" attitude. Just try messing with that.

The last year has been a huge one for you. You started swimming on your own (with the help of a life vest but still), you started preschool (which, shockingly, you LOVE), you had your first sleepovers, you got your first bike, you had your first school recital, you went to your first Disney on Ice show (the first of many, based on how much we both loved it), you went to your first amusement park, you started dance class. But the biggest change, I think we'd agree, was the beginning of your life as a Big Sister. This little guy has been around for about nine months now, and it's taken some getting used to on your part.

Luke is unabashedly enamored with you. Do not mistake the photo - he is not pulling your hair to hurt you. He's pulling your hair to bring you in closer to him. He gazes at you all day, panics when you're not in sight, laughs at everything you say and do, squeals with glee when you so much as glance at him and just generally believes the sun and moon rise and set with you.

You reciprocate his affection with an attitude most people reserve for filing their taxes.

Don't get me wrong - you're really good at helping me care for him. Need someone to fetch a diaper? You're on it. Help with a bath? Just hand you a washcloth. Hunt down a binky that went missing? No problem. But when it comes to showing him any kind of emotion beyond general indifference, you're just not there yet. Maybe once he starts walking and talking and can actually play with you rather than just steal focus when you're trying to hold my and Dad's full attention. Here's hoping. Otherwise, that boy is in for an early life lesson on the pains of rejection.

Outside of how you treat Luke, you are incredibly kind, thoughtful, empathetic, caring and attentive.You pay attention and you know when someone needs a hug or a smile. You relish the opportunity to help someone in need. You're eager to brighten anyone's day, even if it's with a friendly wave to an unfamiliar face in the mall (we'll work on Stranger Danger later). In those moments, I'm most proud to be your mom. That kindness is not something you can teach. It's innate, and I know in many ways it's your Grandma shining through in you. She always said, "Above all else, value kindness," and Kid, you give that stuff away all day every day. You remind me to be kind even when I'm not in the mood to be, and I appreciate that beyond words. Being your Mom has made me a better person than I ever thought I could be and I love you beyond words for that.

Everyone always tells me you're my Mini-Me, and I take that as the biggest compliment of my life.

You're the best, Crunch (yes, we still call you that). Here's to another fantabulous year.

Xox,

Mom