Today you are thirty four months old.

The last two letters I have written have been "fluffy" in part because that's what I had time for, and in part because the last two months have been pretty rough.

I have mentioned before how tough your tantrums are, and they have maintained their intensity these last few months, but our dynamic has shifted. My severely fluctuating hormones and your developmental age mixed together have resulted in a lethal cocktail. We have been at each other's throats, quite often, both of us screaming at each other. It has been ugly. It has been exhausting.

And earlier this month, in utter despair, I didn't feel like I could fix it.

Scariest of all, though, was when, for a few weeks, I didn't care to fix it. I was so burnt out, so exhausted from never getting a chance to reset and regroup that when I looked at you, even while you were in a good mood, I didn't care. It is probably one of the worst feelings I have ever held.

I have been so head-over-heels in love with you over the last two years I couldn't have ever imagined falling out of love and wanting it all to just go away. But there I was, wishing you would just disappear.

Then one day this month the fog that had settled over me lifted and I could see you again, clearly, for who you are. I could smile once again at your silliness and hold you with great compassion while you hurt.

You are extreme, yes, and it's a lot to hold, but we're going to keep trying. Sometimes you slip through our fingers, and other times we ride it out with such grace as if it's all we've ever done, but it's a constant act, an ever-changing game where the only rule is there are no rules.

Happy Thirty Fourth Monthday.