Riley: Three Years

Dear Riley,

I'm going to be honest with you - the way the last year went, you're lucky your dad let you live to see your 3rd birthday. I convinced him that things would get better in the 4th year, and he was willing to adopt a "wait and see" plan.

In the past year, you've gotten yourself kicked out of pre-school for biting, undid the majority of the sleep-training we worked so hard to implement and taken your energy and sound levels up at least seven notches on the dial. You've also perfected your ignoring, defying and obstinating skills, turning them into art forms.

But, there are reasons I went to bat for you. And those reasons will be the reasons that, in the end, no matter what kind of trouble you get yourself into, you will always be OK. You're cute, you're smart, you're funny and you somehow always smell like sweet fruit. These are four things I simply just can't resist.

And there's this other thing, too. This thing that always gets me. It's a thing you're brother has, too, and, in some small ways, your father. It's that, no matter how over-the-top, scream-my-lungs-out bad you are ... you really don't mean to be. In fact, I can tell you kinda hate yourself a bit when you do wrong. You know what you did was wrong, but you just couldn't help yourself.

It's the oxymoronism of young children. Whether it's a matter of not knowing any better or just being caught up in the naughty moment, you don't really want to get in trouble - you're just out of control. And I'm sure you really don't want to sit in a time out and cry your ass off while I yell at you like a Banshee gone wild. Or worse, while your father yells at you.

The thing is, I know you're truly, truly good. Your kind heart shows probably more than we notice, and for that, I do feel a tad guilty. It's hard sometimes to see the forest through all those goddamn overgrown trees, full of birds building nests and crapping all over the place. But they're there. With a tilt of your head and in your sweet baby talk voice, you offer toys for us or your friends to share, you gently pat Holden when he's crying and, little by little, those soft hands are being used less as weapons and more to show comfort and love.

One of your recent concerns is to be sure that everyone is your friend. "You my friend?" you ask, oh, a hundred times a day. It's particularly poignant when you do this after I've yelled at you because I've asked you four times to sit down so I can put your shoes on. "You my friend?" you ask, your lower lip pouted out a bit and the space between your eyebrowns crinkled. "No, I'm your mother." You wait a minute, then respond. "You my mutha. You my friend?" Because, yes, that mother thing is really important. But friends? You've learned a lot recently how important those are, too.

A lot of the times that you're "in trouble," I realize that, when I look back, it is just you trying to be funny. But at 6:08 a.m., as I sit barely awake on the floor of your bedroom pleading with you to put your underwear on so I could get in the shower, it's hard to remember that as you stomp around the room, laughing and yelling, "I naked!" After coffee and in less of a hurry, I know that this is freakin' hilarious. It's the stuff memories are made of. It's absolutely worth appreciating.

I know this next year is going to be a big one for you. In a year from now, you're communication and reasoning skills are going to be 10-fold better. And despite the exasperation and the frustration you so often see from us, we do know that you are - and will continue to be - a sweet, loving and independent boy, full of hugs and kisses.

Happy birthday Ra-Ra. I appreciate you. I am your mother and will always be your friend.

All my love,

Mom