Hot Wheels. I can do Hot Wheels. You don’t know this, but I’ve gathered about forty of the jewel-toned beauties for you already, as well as a few Legos. I think you have to gather and harbor these things because, if you’re a normal boy child, you’ll love both and we’ll need plenty.
And I can do Hot Wheels.
I remember hypercolor Hot Wheels when I was little and loving how they changed color under hot or cold water. Hm. I still buy color-changing straws. Guess not much has changed. But as a mom to a son, there are things I’m not as naturally inclined to but that, because of you being you, your nature, I’ll have to explore and deliver. Some will be hard, but not Hot Wheels. They’re so pretty. Pink tinted, little jewel boxes. Designed by those who like beauty.
You, right now, love playing with the dog bowls. You somehow figured out how to lift the water bowl, full of water, out of its holder and bring it toward you. I don’t know how you figured out how to do that. Today you learned how to open and close the kitchen drawers. You can navigate the first floor in your walker.
It’s amazing to see you in the walker. You can’t yet crawl but the walker enables you to go where your mind determines. You can walk to me and ask to be held (and lift your arms to indicate that you want me to pick you up). You cornered Shasta in your dad’s office and squealed with delight at her. You thought she was sooo funny and the situation so entertaining. The walker opened my mind to yours, as in, it showed me that you have determination, identity, and wants combined with decision making skills. You want to go here or there, you decide it, you make it happen. You’re your own person. I even started trucking your walker to Open Play Gym at the community center, so you can explore the jungle of children and chaos of toys, kids, bikes, balls, humanity.
And why do I wait until I’m so tired to write you a letter?
I love you, Marvelous Wonder. Walking child. Thinker. Dreamer.