Now 23 months and ten days old, you are so close to 2.
Although you still struggle with drop-offs at school, you’re becoming a part of the community there, and bringing some of them home, too. This weekend you told us that your classmate “Sammy goes on airplane” and suggested that “Miss Myra coming to Finn’s birthday party.” You then started reciting by memory from one of your school books, beginning with “Black sheep, black sheep, what do you see? I see a brown dog looking at me.” You are speaking in longer, more complete sentences now, and just starting to use articles and linking verbs. You’re almost there with those — but not quite. One minute you say, “Finn is a boy; Mommy is a girl,” and the next, “Finn are happy.” And although you are indeed beginning to use first person and may politely inform us, “”I want water please,” you’re still more likely to shout “”Finn wants water!!!” with emphasis on the last syllable. It’s okay. You’re working on it. You’re getting closer.
Now home after four days in the hospital, I am finally closer to you.
I had never slept under a different roof until that first night away, and after the third night, I was desperate to come home to my boy. You seemed so very far away, even when Daddy brought you to see me. Before I was wheeled in for my appendectomy, you took one look at me in pre-op and said, “Daddy, go THAT way,” pointing at the door from which you had come. I was trying so hard to smile and animate myself for you when you walked in, and your refusal to kiss me was almost more than I could bear. But you warmed up when I made the fishy-kiss face, and then the next day we played peek-a-boo as you hid behind the privacy curtain you soon discovered could be pulled around my hospital bed. That game was the closest we could get. Here, back at home, I am now up and around, albeit moving more slowly. I try to stay where you are, sitting next to you, touching your curls and your cheeks and your chin. But even though we’re closer, I still feel so far away: I cannot pick you up and hold you; I cannot bathe you; I cannot sit you on my lap to read you a story; I cannot carry you out to see the moon. When you wake at night, you now call for Daddy. In just one week, I have lost so much. To my appendix, I say, Finn-style, “Adios!” To you, I say, I’m working on it. I’m getting closer.