Dear Duck,

The theme of Month 28 is art, or more specifically, Sara Art. Which is to say, any art that can be created with MARKERS. Why Crayola hasn’t surpassd Wal-Mart in annual revenue with the creation of washable markers is beyond me. It’s MAGIC. Every day you ask to make a “Mare Mare Mare” (translation: a Mural).  Your Daddy wants me to correct you when you mispronounce words and his request is valid. After all, if I never say “mural”, how will you ever say mural? I spent this last month turning “I want open” into “I want oatmeal”.  It’s hard, because I find Sara words to be so darned cute. But, in the long run, I’d hate for you to be standing in your first medical emergency, wearing your freshly starched Dr. Sara whitecoat, and yell out, “I NEED A BAN BAN, STAT! WHERE’S THAT MED-CINE AND THE MEMOMETER?!”  First things first; you call magnets, “maggots”, so that must be rectified prior to the Mare Mare Mare.

Sleeping continues to be, and will always be, for the rest of all the days of the endless universe (this is what sleep deprivation sounds like), a sticking point. Daddy has made a little progress as of late, and as we have so many times in the past, been fed a snack of false hope. Some people marvel that I, the great consumer of American Healthcare, have not subjected you to a sleep study. I don’t need a thousand dollar test to tell me you are my daughter. It takes one to know one. I now sleep like a drugged out Rock Star, so I’m hoping you’ll eventually morph. Until then, we’ll have to be content with watching you sleep in suspended animation. You seem to fall asleep mid-move in some of the greatest break dancing routines every choreographed. Your mouth is open and you have an actual facial expression of surprise. Like, “OH DEAR GOD, I think I’m falling ASLEEP! NOOOO….STOOOOPPP!” Your limbs are all reaching in different, awkward directions, as if they are trying to escape. It’s both painful to watch, and benignly quizzical.

While many are celebrating your great strides in potty training, I see it for what it is: the training of Pavlov’s dog. You don’t pee when you have the urge to pee. You pee when you want M&Ms. Sometimes when you’ve finished a treat of post-pee M&Ms, you’ll rush back into the bathroom and try to pee again. There you sit on the Pooh Potty, grunting out the words, “I…don’t…ugh…have…to…ugh…pee!” Sometimes you’ll even say, “I want M&Ms…oh…um, I have to PEE!” I can see the future; we’ll be Christmas shopping in your mid-twenties, make a bathroom stop, and you’ll walk to the vending machine to buy some chocolate. You won’t know why. You may not even be conscious that you are doing it. But I’ll know. You’ll be a diabetic by 30, and it will be my fault.

Your new thing (of a thousand new things I could never catalog) is to ask, “WHAT’S that SOUND?!” Even when you know the sound. Of your Daddy farting….again. I think you’ve addressed every creak on the planet in the last month. I do however love your serious consideration of my answers. “Well Sara, that is the sump pump in the basement floor. It keeps water from flooding the basement. Your Daddy insists that we buy a back up sump pump but we don’t have the extra cash right now because you and your sister are insanely expensive to keep alive.” You always have the same reply, “Oh, uh huh. Because that scared me.” Uh huh, so does the rising cost of college tuitions. Don’t even ASK me for an ice sculpture at your wedding. I spent that money on tiny leggins at Osh Kosh B’Gosh.

You hug and kiss me every night on your way to bed (or more accurately called, the Stage Where you Sing “Where is Thumbkin” until You Pass Out from Sheer Exhaustion). Last week I was hugging you tightly and asked, “Are you my baby?!” You replied quite matter of fact, “I’m not a baby.” Then you jumped off my lap and walked away without looking back. My entire heart broke at that very moment. No Sara. No you are not. The next night you marched around the living room waving a flag, singing Yankee Doodle (and with the girls be handy you sing, “And with the HANDY DANDY”). You had a street walker style silver purse hanging from your other arm, wearing Minnie Mouse ears, waving that flag and singing away. You are in an entirely new place now. A new adventure, we would say. I want to both grab it and tell it to “WALK EEWAY”, however impossible that might sound. Because you’ll hear me say this a million times in this life child; You can have it all, just not at the same time.

Another new thing is to beg, “one more time Mommy. Just one more time.” OK Ducky, Mommy’s turn (as you say in the car when you “allow” me to listen to the traffic report): let me hug you just one more time. Let me kiss you and smell your tiny person skin just one more time. Let me wash your funny straight hair just one more time. Let me throw you sideways while I carry you up the stairs just to hear you giggle one more time. Let me cuddle you in my arms where you still fit just one more time. Let me capture the essence of you on this ledge of life and store it somewhere safe, so I can visit it and feel your sweetness when you are 13 and hate the “no hanging out at the theater when the movie is over” rule. Stay with me sweet girl, just stay with me, all full of sass and sugar, just one more day.

Your Patron of the Arts,

Mommy