Where did the moon go?

In the last couple of weeks, we've started to have dialogs with you about the moon. You asked us, "where did the moon go?" On the porch, you say to dad -- "I can't reach the moon!" as you try to jump up to touch it. You've also determined that the moon "has a poopy diaper" that must be changed; this is a personification I'd never imagined. I love to talk with you about things you imagine -- things you see. Yesterday, you said the clouds in the sunrise "looked kind of like mountains."

You are becoming so sharp, it's hard to say anything that we don't want you to repeat later. This is good and bad. If I tell you we'll get your favorite cookies at the store, you'll remember I made that promise. Last night you screamed for cookies while we drove home, kicking the back seat simultaneously shoving your fingers in your mouth and hitting your face in a bizarre self abuse tactic. Next time, we'll get the (expletive deleted) cookies as I promised.

This attention to detail also brings us great joy as you tell people "thank you so much!" as we leave a restaurant and help us in the kitchen at home. You say, "I love you!" and can tell us (most of the time) what you are thinking. I mean, you are still Two in the classic sense; you struggle for independence while still needing us intensely. There are flailings and screaming. You'll turn your body into a wet noodle, your bones disappearing as you slip between my hands. These tantrums can be overwhelmingly frustrating, but I try my hardest to learn from them.

You are now going to school -- a Montessori program for children your age -- and you love it. I love to hear you talk about your friends, and your work. You sing songs and show us how you pretend at school. You've told us you want to go everyday and long to take a nap on the cots with your other friends. It's wonderfully obvious that you are nourished there. The transition wasn't too rough -- you've never cried when we leave you at class -- but you still remember that "girl pushed you" on the first day. You always follow up this statement with, "it's okay" so it's obvious that you are working through new situations and the emotions that arise.

There's something I haven't really written about here because I was, quite simply, afraid. Your Grandma Nancy has been fighting a battle with cancer and we were sure she wouldn't be with us by now. Dad and I wondered how we would explain death to you, our hearts exploding with grief. But it seems Grandma is getting better, in a sense. You've seen her and know she is sick. The doctors believe the intense chemotherapy is helping to kill the cancer, and we hope she will live at least a few more years. She has been in bed for many months; perhaps she will be able to sit up and take rides in a wheelchair. Maybe you will go for a walk with her! I want you to know her, but there's a large part of me that wants to protect you from the inevitable loss. If you were older, and could understand, I feel that it may be easier. The connection you make with her on the phone, through pictures and during our infrequent and short visits pain me because I know you cherish your human relationships. Your love for people -- from family to grocery clerk -- is vast. This capacity for love will, I hope, bring you more joy than pain in your life.

You are so beautiful.