Dear Birdzone the Clown,

(Yes, it seems like I just wrote you a monthly letter.  That's because I'm a lazy bum and I was way late on the last one, making this one seem early.  I'll be back on track next month. What do you mean, you don't care?  What do you mean, you're only two and you don't read blogs and you didn't notice and what's a blog and you need a diaper change?)

Kid, you're making me into a crazy person.  I find myself having conversations with you that I couldn't have predicted, not even if I was a hybrid of Tim Burton, Roald Dahl, and Neil Gaiman (ooh, that might be the best hybrid person ever).  The questions you ask me confuse my already-tangled mind:

"I can't find your butterfly wings.  Can you wear your bird hat, instead, and maybe put some pants on?"
"Do not lick the screen again; not until you've found the other pumpkin."
"The toilet doesn't eat poop."
"Trees aren't made of paper ... well, they kind of are.  Can I explain that later?"
"Please only put these crayons up your nose, not those."

I can't take this.  It's like every cartoon in my mind is coming to life and spilling out of my mouth.  You spend your days coloring paper bag puppets, making pretend salads for Siah (she's yet to try one), and dragging your Mickey Mouse doll all over creation.  You ask so many questions in the course of one sentence that you actually run out of breath, leaving the end bit to sound like, "... and where Abby go on vacation and mommy's car is black, right? and daddy's car is silver and ..." where you have to pause and gulp in a big gasp of air to finish the ten thousand thoughts you haven't yet purged.

Sometimes, you rock out so hard that I can't stop laughing at you:

Other times, your imagination is in full force, finding magic in its fledgling form.  We watched an episode of Sesame Street that showed your beloved Elmo playing a violin.

"I want to play violin, mama!"

While you and Daddy brushed your teeth for bed that night, I made you a quick violin out of a cardboard box, a Sharpie marker, and a pair of scissors.  And now, for the last few days, you've been dragging around this tattered "violin" everywhere you go.  Like today, when we went to the grocery store, and you offered to play the deli guy a "song on mine's violin and you give me the cheese?" 

Needless to say, that slice of cheese was hard-earned, as you pretended to drag your bow across the "violin" while Mommy hummed loudly beside you.

You are quickly leaving behind your days as "the little baby" and are becoming my friend.  We go to the beach together.  We make grocery lists together (though you repeatedly insist on "choc-it pun'ing," fearful that I'll neglect to grab your favorite snack).  We sometimes talk shit about the cats ("Tell Siah to stop picking the screen or she's going to have to eat green beans for dinner!"  "Yeah, green beans for the CAT - that's silly!").  And those moments when you laugh so hard that you double over and almost touch your toes are worth the moments when you're trying to stick test strips into my ears.  ("You hear the meh-cine, mama?")

You are the child of a dozen faces.  A hundred questions.  A thousand hugs and kisses.  And a million reasons that my life is best with you in it.  Mama loves you so much.  In first and in third person.

xo,
Your Mom