Dear Son #3,
Oh my baby boy. I don’t know what it’s like to be the youngest and to feel in constant competition with two older brothers. To be told that you’re too young, too small, too slow, too immature – it honestly sounds like it sucks. I tell you so many times that you don’t have to keep up, don’t have to be big, and that it’s okay to be silly, accept help or use a stool sometimes. But alas, I am just your mother and a first-born at that, so really, what do I know on the subject? Not much.
I have always been in awe of your independence and assertiveness in how you are so excited to try new things (except vegetables) and how you stick up for yourself (very loudly usually) in any cases of injustice. I find your knowledge and awareness of the world around you very impressive as well as your sheer motivation, curiosity and willingness to learn, well, everything. You’re like a sponge, soaking up everything around you – dirt and grime included for sure but that’s not the point of this post.
99% of the time, I love you for it.
Last weekend I had set you and William up downstairs to watch—uuuugggghhhh—Peppa Pig. Now while I do officially have a Peppa Pig ban at our house, today I was willing to turn a blind eye to it for the sake of watching the second Guardians of the Galaxy with Pieter.
About an hour into watching a laser-canon-armed-racoon shoot various types of always-slimy-octopus-like-aliens, we both started to smell something burning. Glancing at each other in alarm we paused the movie and hurried downstairs to where the smell was at its thickest. We found you both on the couch engrossed in another episode of The-Most-Annoying-Piece-of-Bacon-You’ll-Ever-Meet seemingly quite unaffected by the very nasty odour surrounding you.
“Boys!” I cried, “What smells so bad!?” plugging my nose with Pieter bringing up the rear coughing and spluttering dramatically.
After you both looked at us blankly for about 20 seconds I saw a lightbulb go off in your head as you rushed over to the microwave. And there, my little 5-year-old, you revealed to me a very hot, very brown and very burnt Magic Bag. After sending up a prayer of thanks to the Good Lord for protecting the house from burning down, I sat you down to not only explain the danger of putting a Magic Bag in the microwave for “1000”. We talked about how no matter how independent you feel that you are or how much you want to prove yourself, some things need Mommy or Daddy’s help.
After our brief pep-talk, I quickly threw the roasted Magic Bag out the front door, it’s next destination being the trash once it had cooled down. The smell took a bit longer to get ventilated with a lot of fans going and windows open, but after about two days we finally were able to say we stopped smelling it. The clothes that we were wearing needed to be washed and we ended up parting with the microwave after realizing that no cleaning chemical on earth could remove the now brown interior and smell in the venting mechanism.
Regardless, I want to tell you that it’s okay.
It’s okay not to be able to do everything yourself.
It’s okay that you’re the smallest one.
It’s okay that you make mistakes.
It’s okay to not know everything.
It’s okay to slow down.
And it’s definitely okay to ask for help. Because nothing goes in the microwave for “1000” and makes it out alive.
Love Mommy,
XOX
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