Dear Scarlett,
Here is your playlist from this morning, which you danced to in your underwear:
The Ramones, I Wanna Be Sedated--three times
Beck, Devil's Haircut--three times ("Can I listen to my favorite song of Beck? One more time?")
Sum 41, Fat Lip--once, because it's awful, and I have to draw the line somewhere
Sweet, Ballroom Blitz--four times, because I was too distracted making this list to limit you to three times
Mother Hips, Life in the City
Meiko, Boys with Girlfriends
Brett Dennen, Comeback Kid--once, oddly. Perhaps you're getting sick of this one? Please?
The Dandy Warhols, We Used to Be Friends--you started this one numerous times, because you love the beginning, and then didn't listen all the way through
Spoon, That's the Way We Get By
Coldplay, Lost--over and over and over and over and who is in charge here?
You're using iTunes, in all of its outdatedness. I mainly listen to music on Rhapsody now, so the stuff on my iPad is just old. But you know your way around iTunes so well, and we allow you to use the iPad a lot for your dancing needs. I feel a little ambivalent about this, because I was always really aware of how much time you spent playing games on the device, and didn't permit much. But now that you're just picking a song and getting up to dance, we're pretty liberal about it.
This morning, you climbed into bed with me and Dad at 5am, and passed back out after telling me to "please put my arm around me." You mostly have pronouns down at this point, but not always. When we woke up at 7am, I was still exhausted. I love sleeping with you, but I'm not going to call it a restful experience.
Now you've gone off to the California Academy of Sciences with your fabulous babysitter, Maggie. You are meeting Annabelle and her nanny for a day of fish, butterflies, and penguins.
And a break from the iPad.
Love,
Mom
