Dear Female Cyclists: On behalf of the Princess/Rings family, I sincerely apologize if you were offended when my dear boy, pointed to the both of you, one after the other, excitedly waving his arm in the air as he exclaimed “Dike! Dike!” just as you were passing. He in no way was referring to what your sexual preferences may or may not be. It’s just that, well, he loves everything bike (seriously, he’s crazy obsessed!) but has yet to master the necessary ‘b’ sounds. But hey, better than calling trucks “%$&#” don’t you think!
Racing for ice cream, and already letting the girls win!
Dear Ladders, Chairs, Tables, Pretty Much Anything My Child Climbs: Please keep my boy safe, please don’t let him fall through your cracks, or off your platforms. It’s bad enough the kid wants to climb to the moon at 21 months old and give his mama heart palpitations at 35, I do NOT need full on attacks.
Dear Little Knees: I understand you might be a wee bit scared of the boy you’re attached to. May I please refer you to the timeless tale of how little boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails, a poem that I could surely add a stanza or two to, something along the lines of “scrapes and scratches and bloody Bandaid patches!” You’ll be happy to know, I have informed the boy that his feet go in front of one another and are not meant to be tripped over, and that his knees are probably not made for grinding into rock piles or down cement stairs. But, dear knees, I now have a favour to ask of you. Please toughen up! Seriously, that one owie of yours, the one that went right down to the whites of the bone, and was pussy all over, nearly had me hurling!
Dear Professional Soccer Players and NHL Goalies: If you thought your diving and acting wounded skills were Oscar worthy, you haven’t seen the instant replays of Little Ring’s falls. He could show you a thing or two that would surely have the refs calling penalties on your behalf. We’re taking clients; email for pricing.
Dear Vocabulary Gods: I. Love. You. Two weeks ago, after months of hearing the boy spout everyone else’s name including a friend he had only just met minutes prior (and “Da” and “Dysha” (both Big Ring names) for over a year) you finally blessed me with the one name I have so longed for: “Mama!” And not just once, nope, mama is on repeat all day and all night. He says mama when he wakes up, he says mama when he wants me to read a story, mama when he wants to show me his bike stunts, mama, mama, mama when he can’t see me, mama when he leans in for a “tiss,” mAmmmmmmA when he doesn’t care to sleep. I love every single one of them. Now, if only we could master “I. Love. You” my heart would forever be in cloud 9.
Dear Little Ring: How on earth did you become so charming? so much a people person? an animal person? so incredibly theatrical? so obsessive? (see dike above) so totally a flirt? so caring, loving, knowing? How on earth are you already 21 months old?
No longer a baby, not yet a big boy, just my love.
Forever my love.
“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh