Neglecting My Kids

Dear Sweet Pea,

I love you. I really do. You are a shinning spot of delight in my life. You make me laugh all day long with your silly faces, and your most sincere babbling. Even better when you say something I can actually understand. You must wear a "Princess" dress every day. And every day you ask me "How do I look?" and before I can respond you provide me with the word you are hoping to hear "Princess?" I love to spy on you as you play in a corner with blocks, or babies, or stolen Barbies. You are so creative and imaginative and bold. Make no mistake, I adore you.

But having said that I have a very important favor to ask of you. Could you please quit being such a two year old?

Please stop changing your clothes eight times a day.

Yes, I am proud that you have figured out how to dress and undress yourself. This is a skill that you have mastered. No more need to practice this skill several times a day. You can simply get up in the morning and change from your jammies to clothes. Then at the end of the day you can put your jammies back on. See how only one clothing change simplifies things. And it reduces the vast quantities of laundry I have to wash each week. Our washing machine is older than Pork Chop, and on its last leg. Next time you go to needlessly change your clothes won't you think of the washing machine?

And since we are talking about clothes, let's spend a minute talking about one of the valid reasons you change your clothes: potty training. Now this is another skill you've mastered. You can pee and poo in the potty. No biggie. But just because you can doesn't mean you do. You're just as content to pee you pants, take them off, and move on with life, never once pausing in your play to alert me to the fact that I now have a puddle of yuck in the middle of my carpet. And forget going back to diapers. You don't like them. And since we've already established that you hold a Masters in dressing yourself it goes without saying that you posses the skills necessary to remove the offending diaper, used or unused, and that is left lying around willy-nilly as well.

Could you cut that out.

Please pee in the potty, every time, for me.

And one more thought on the topic of clothes.

You are developing a bit of a nudist streak. I never know from what moment to the next what you'll be wearing, but lately it is becoming common place to walk into a room and discover you are wearing nothing but a smile. Frankly I prefer this to the fifty million costumes changes, again, think of the washer. Plus, you've got a super cute little tush. But I would caution you, try to temper this urge until the weather gets a little warmer. Do I need to remind you of the month long bout of sickness we just endured. Do you not remember vomiting? I'd like to avoid a repeat of that, and for some reason I think running around in the chill nudie-bootie will lead directly to sickness. There may or may not be scientific fact to back me up on this, so just humor your Mom on this one.

And could you do me a favor and drink from a cup without spilling it? Just once? Pretty please, for me? If you're going to insist on drinking for a big girl cup, you need to handle the cup like a big girl. No more spilling.

And please stay out of my make-up. It isn't good for us to go meet Daddy at work when you've put orange lip gloss all around your eye in a very good imitation of a half-healed shiner that you absolutely refused to let me remove with a baby wipe. Life as a Police Officer is hard enough. Don't make Daddy walk around looking like a child beating Police Officer. Do this favor for your Daddy.

And could you just all around stay out of stuff that doesn't belong to you? I know Pork Chop, Meaty, and Bird would all throw a parade for you if you would stay out of their toys (I'm looking at the stolen Barbies you've stashed behind your shape sorter). But this is more important than just moving around some toys. Remember that half gallon of bleach you poured on my bedroom carpet?

Yeah.

*sigh*

Please stop being such a two year old.

Love,

Mom