Dear Harper – Month 28

I should’ve just given up on the trash can a long time ago. The metal trash can that used to sit next to the computer. See, back when we used to have an actual desk where the computer lived, the trash can resided under said desk and housed things like old pieces of paper and pencil shavings. Then you came along, and our desk was tossed out in favor of an IKEA thing that can be closed in an effort to save space and stuff. Anyway, ever since you could push things while walking on your knees, the trash can has been your receptacle for your dolls and other toys. Every once in a while, I’ll dump it out and put your toys away, only to have you hijack it again within minutes. You like to pile your dolls in it and push them around the apartment. Never mind the doll carriage you have taking up a lot of space in the room that used to be our office that is now where your toys live.

In other news, we’re doing our best to indoctrinate you with the goodness that is “The Simpsons.” Some would argue that you’re too young, but you’re so in love with Homer that I think it would damage you more if we didn’t let you watch it. You get to watch a little of season 7 (best season ever) before bed each night. You used to watch the documentary “Babies,” but now you let us know: “No Babies. Homer.” Good girl.

Your good taste can also be transferred to music. Your current favorite song is Whiskeytown’s “16 Days,” and you even corrected your father on the lyrics the other day. One down side to your music taste is that your father has turned you on to the show “Glee,” which we have never really seen, but you really enjoy listening to that cast of twentysomethings pretending to be teenagers sing the Journey song “Don’t Stop Believing.” The other day (making it something that happened in your 29^th month, since I am getting behind on these letters) you were “helping” me cut eggplant (“No like it”) in the kitchen, when you started to act like you were going to cut your hand with the butter knife. When I said, “If you keep doing that, I’m going to have to take it away from you,” you immediately began to sing the refrain of “16 Days,” which is “away from you … away from you.” Yeah, you’re a genius. But I’ve always known that.

Lately you’ve been commenting every move your father and I make with “Machst Du?” Sometimes you’ll say the same thing in English: “Doing?” As in “what are you doing?” When I told you that if you said that one more time I would most certainly lose my mind, you paused for a moment and then said, “Machst Du?”

You’ve apparently chosen the long road to potty training, peeing maybe once a day after a lot of convincing and peer pressure (“Do you want to pee on the toilet, like Samaire and Viola?”) and pooping once in a blue moon, but only if I let you play the harmonica on the toilet. We’re afraid you’ll be in diapers forever if we keep forcing the issue, and I know I’ve said this before, but toddler poop diapers are disgusting. (Disgusting being a word that you used to describe the cup of juice from yesterday I just tried to make you drink.) We’ve had the following conversation more than once:

Me: Harper, where does Mommy poop?

You: On the toilet.

Me: And Daddy?

You: Toilet.

Me: And Samaire?

You: Toilet.

Me: And Harper?

You: Poopy diaper.

Well then. Although now you give your daddy and me stickers when we pee on the toilet, too. And sometimes you’ll applaud.

Another thing I find myself saying a lot of you, like a good mother, is, “That’s not a toy.” My cell phone, the thermometer, the lamp: All not toys. The other day I picked up my cell phone, only to have you immediately take it out of my hands, reprimanding, “Not a toy, Mama.”

You got your very first tricycle at Easter, and while you seem to like sitting and peddling, the concept of steering seems to be beyond you. Luckily the trike has a push handle for us poor parents, but it doesn’t do us much good when you don’t steer; you can only pretend like going in circles is fun for a while. After a round with me and your father both yelling “Steer! Steer!” you got fed up and said, “Harper walk.”

You’re talking and talking and talking a lot, and it’s a hilarious mix of German and English. And if you get the feeling that someone doesn’t understand you, you’ll switch to the other language. This is where I should cough up some examples, right? Well, two years of inadequate sleep will erase important parts of your brain, just so you know. Oh, wait, here’s one: Ich sneezen. Meaning, we suppose, I sneeze.

Love,

Mama