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

Dear Libby

Wait. Didn't I just write you a Happy 2nd Birthday love letter like, one viewing of "Frozen" ago? What on earth happened to the last 12 months? I remember hanging out with you a lot doing some of our favorite things (walks in the park, trips to the library, watching the same movies 1,000 times). I remember dealing with the occasional (daily) tantrum and cleaning up the occasional (hourly) mess or two, but other than that, I can't tell you where this year went.

A few things stick out. You got really into the holidays this year and asked everyone you saw every time you saw them one of the following questions for months:

1. What are you gonna be for Halloween?

2. What am I gonna be for Halloween?

3. What do you want for Christmas? 

4. What do I want for Christmas?

It was super cute...the first 8 million times. After that...well, let's just say I was okay with New Years finally rolling around. It's now February and you still manage to work all four questions into regular conversation. Only eight more months until they become relevant again! 

You also had an incredible vocabulary explosion this year and have been known to call me:

1. Gullible (sometimes appropriately)

2. Complicated (also appropriately)

3. Your best friend (swoon!)

4. Your true love (mega swoon!)

I hang on to the moments when you call me those last two because I am painfully aware of the day in the not so distant future when getting you to spend time with me will take some kind of hypnosis like the kind Ursula uses on Prince Eric when she's disguised as Vanessa and using Ariel's voice (hopefully, you still love "The Little Mermaid" as much as you do now and get that reference).

You also make up words. I have a (probably not great) tendency to call you a jabroni when you're acting like a goofball. I also call you out on your frequent sass about 800 times a day. You opted to save time by combining the two, and call yourself a "Sassabroni." The first time you said it, your father and I looked at each other in disbelief and laughed for an hour. Now, we use it daily. 

Sidenote: We do still call you Crunch, and we still don't know why. I think you're stuck with this one for life, kid. Apologies. 

Oh, Crunch, that I could hit a pause button and just freeze time where we are right now, because let me tell you, now is pretty great. Here are a few more highlights: 

Wheel-san (as you call him): Your best friend in life is super hairy, sometimes smelly, and stalks your every move. Wilson, our beloved border collie/lab mix who we brought home around your birthday last year, has imprinted on you in the most adorable way. You reward him for such devotion by treating him basically like you do all your stuffed animals. You tug at him, pull at him, jump on him, smash your face into him. If you could, you'd probably pick him up and toss him around a little. I regularly remind you that Wilson is indeed a living being with actual feelings, emotional and physical, but you prefer to see him as a lifeform whose sole existence is for your personal amusement. You do tell him often how much you love him and that he is your best friend. It's just enough to keep him coming back for more day after day after day. God bless this creature and all he tolerates in the name of loving you.

You Really Do Love All Animals: I mean, Wils gets top billing, but if there's a petting zoo within sight, a neighbor walking his dog, or a feral raccoon scrounging around a nearby Dumpster, WATCH OUT. You will do anything to pet them, snuggle them, name them, and pretty much claim them as your own. You've ridden a pony exactly twice in your life. The first time you did it, you hopped on the saddle like you'd been winning rodeo competitions your entire childhood. Sometimes, though, this love gets you into the occasional sticky situation. Once, we were in a very crowded petting zoo and I was holding your hand, guiding you through it. I stopped short when I felt you lagging behind and, still pressing forward, I gave your arm a yank and said, "Come on, Lib!" only to turn around and realize a cow had walked between us and I was smacking you into its backside over and over. The mom next to me LOST HER MIND and I couldn't help but join her in her laughter. I mean, some days are good days. Some days, you hurl your kid into the backside of a cow. It happens. 

"Friends": You started going to daycare this year at the church, and you LOVE it. You must turn on that signature Libby Charm when you're there because everyone who runs it LOVES you right back. (Did I mention you're super charming? I know all parents probably say that about their kids, but I don't know many others who, on two separate occasions, have had complete strangers walk up to them and  HAND THEM  MONEY simply because they are far too cute to go unpaid for being that damn adorable in public. Your father keeps trying to get me to take you on auditions for commercials. I mean, you've already pulled in $4 doing exactly nothing, so he might be on to something there).

I mean, come on. Whatever you're selling, I'm buying. 

I digress. You call daycare "Friends" and you get so excited when it's time to go. Before we started taking you there, I was sick, panicking about how much you'd miss me when I dropped you off. The first time, I only left you there for an hour and sat at the library across the street in case they called me back to reclaim my hysterical, homesick child. You have never, ever cared for one minute about me not being there. In fact, I don't know that my existence even registers to you once we enter the daycare room. At first, I'd wait awkwardly by the front desk, calling your name and waving like a passenger on the Titanic as you bolted off to grab a toy or join another toddler already playing. Now, I just sign you in and know I won't talk to you again until you're back in the car nagging me for a snack on the way home.

Hold On!: Sometimes, for reasons neither Daddy nor I can discern, you talk in this super nasally, borderline creaky weird whine/talk thing that we can only describe as Kardashian Voice. You don't do it super often, but it comes out most when you're playing a game with Dad you've dubbed Hold On! We'll all be sitting around, and suddenly, Kim Kardashian is in our living room telling Dad to "hold aaaaaaan," and you'll jump on his back and demand that he piggyback you around the room. It's super cute and we laugh every time. I just hope that laughter isn't reinforcing the idea that that voice is OK to use anywhere but in the privacy of your own home.

Big Sister: This is probably the biggest thing going on in your life right now, and honestly, I'm not 100 percent sure you even know it's happening. In about two months, you're going to become a big sister. You know something's up. You see my belly getting bigger, and you know that sometimes the baby kicks in my tummy. You'll say, "I'm the big sister!" every once in a while. Still, I'm not entirely convinced you know what that means. But the good news is this: I know in my heart of hearts you are going to be the most amazing big sister any little brother could ever ask for. I know you're going to love this baby more than you'll be able to tell us, and I know you're going to teach him how to be just the best kid God ever put on this earth. You'll show him how to be fun, sweet, caring, goofy, smart, and, more important than all those other things, kind. Because you are all of that. He will watch you and learn from your extraordinary example, and I feel so blessed every day that Dad and I have you around to help him learn and grow.

Our family is growing, and as it does, so will my already-consuming love for you. I can't wait to see where this journey takes us. Just know that wherever it leads, we're going together.

XOXOX,

Mama

Oh boy!

I was busy making googly eyes at the little creature on the computer screen in front of me when the ultrasound technician furrowed her brow and shook her head. 

"You're how far along?" she asked, peering closer as the image swam in and out of view.

"Twelve weeks," I said not taking my eyes off it as to not miss a single movement. 

"No...you're at least 15. Probably closer to 16," she said.

Huh. "OK," I said, thinking that made no difference to me. I soon learned that was not entirely true. 

"Because you're further along, I can tell you the sex," she said grinning. 

Well, that changed things. "TELL ME!" I said. 

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"TELL ME!" I repeated. 

"Well, see those?" she said, pointing to two long lines on the screen. "Those are legs. And that in the middle..."

"A boy!" I said, a shocked smile overtaking my face. 

"A boy," she nodded. 

It's official - Justin, Libby, Wilson and I will be welcoming a baby boy into our family on or around April 19. We're excited and overjoyed and nervous and happy and just feeling really lucky that we get to do this again. 

I'm not entirely surprised at the sex as this pregnancy has been so completely opposite of what I experienced with Lib. When I was pregnant with her, I felt so Earth Mother goddess glowy, I remember thinking, "What's the big fuss about? This is awesome! Look at my nails! Look at my boobs! I've never had either before! This rocks!"

This time, on my best days, I look recently exhumed. On the bad days, I avoid reflective surfaces altogether. I feel like I've been hit by a garbage truck, then scooped up by said truck, taken to the dump, and am barreling toward the fiery incineration pit, Toy Story 3-style. Like the characters, I've accepted my fate, only I'm actually kind of looking forward to my imminent demise. 

Every single person I told this prior to knowing the sex responded with, "Oooo! I bet it's a boy!"* Based on the way I feel, I just hope it's human and not something sent from an evil realm to destroy all mankind. 

*I guess boys make you sick? Well, technically, a boy did do this to me, so it's not completely wrong. 

I'm told this phase will pass, and I'm already starting to feel a little better. What won't pass, I'm coming to realize, is the incessant reminder that I really should not have even considered conceiving again in my decrepit state. "Advanced Maternal Age" is a term I'm becoming quite familiar with, as every time I do anything at the doctor's office - go in for a routine check-up, have any test done, blink - I'm reminded that I am SO OLD OMG and probably should have thrown in the towel on this whole motherhood business the instant I became legally able to drink. 

I'm 36. I had Libby when I was 33. Apparently, those three years mean the difference between super-normal-nothing-to-worry-about pregnancy and EVERYTHING YOU DO WILL RESULT IN DISASTER pregnancy. I get it. I do. And of course, better safe than sorry, but the whole thing just gets a little old (ha!) after a while. 

We have told Libby she's getting a sibling, but she's 2, so her understanding of what's happening is pretty much limited to "Mama's tummy hurts." One night, we were cuddling on the couch when a giant wave of nausea hit me. I knew I was going to hurl and didn't want to scare her, so I told her, in the calmest voice I could muster, to go get daddy, who was downstairs. She tore off, barreling through the house, screeching, "DADDY!!!!! SHE'S HURT!!!!!" at the top of her little lungs. Justin bolted upstairs, thinking I had been violently murdered only to find me green-faced and clawing my way to the bathroom. I felt terrible for having upset her, but at least I know the kid can hold her own in emergencies. 

So yes, this time is around is different in many ways from the first, but despite the entire preceding, I'm not really complaining. I'm so excited and happy to get to do this again, and I can't wait to see what this child is like. Super outgoing and life-of-the-party like Lib (and her dad)? More reserved and quiet (like me)? Horned and fanged, as to better annihilate all who stand in the path of its demonic rage (as I suspect)? Kidding! Regardless of all of it, I just can't wait to meet him. Because if how I feel about this one is any indication, we have a love like I've never known in our future.