Dear R,

I'm a little worried about you--is that an embarrassingly gratuitous statement for a mother to make about her child? Although I've been told that a toddler's personality can drastically change as they gain independence and that the worst thing you can do is trap your kid with labels, I secretly cannot help thinking them in my head when you react to things in your distinct and, so far, consistent way: shy (the worst label offender), timid, cautious, sensitive, easily frightened, insecure, unadventurous, and slothlike (confession: I wanted to type "lazy"). I know, so many negatives.

It's just that while I try my best to be sympathetic, it is hard to soothe a frantic child because she is freaking out about a piece of string. Yes, you do this. I don't know, maybe string looks like the antenna of a bug or something? You hate bugs; but then, so do I. You still dislike walking and we have been having some major battles about your refusal to go up and down the stairs in our apartment, despite being perfectly able to do so. "Mama, hug," you say, which means: "Carry me"--even when I've got four bags of groceries hanging from each arm, even if I just want to run down quickly to grab something, but you refuse to wait upstairs alone for even 30 seconds.

I've been frustrated and short-tempered with you lately, R. I'm so sorry about that. I want to blame it on a combination of stress over radiation contamination and the stinkin' Claritin-D, which a quick Google reveals can affect your moods (I took one yesterday, too close to bedtime, and spent the entire night jerking awake, convinced we were having another earthquake). Maybe, too, it's the lack of sleep, since you've been waking like clockwork at 5:45am, ever since we got back from our three-week trip almost three weeks ago, so get back to normal already, please. But I also need to work on my patience, my sympathy, my tolerance for things I don't understand about you (e.g., Why is no one allowed to sleep in your presence? And do you have to attempt to gauge out the offender's eyeballs?). I just want you to know though that some day, if you ever want to get a tattoo, I won't freak out on you (well, as long as the design doesn't include a prancing unicorn or stretch across your face); your dad will, but we'll deal with that when we get to it.

One funny development: You are very into washing dishes right now. Of course you're providing zero actual help, and in fact are doubling the amount of time I have to stand at the kitchen sink. But the seriousness with which you attend to the task is cute. And to be honest, I'd just as soon wash dishes with you as play with some other game that would likely create a mess, a mess that I'd either have to clean up myself or talk myself blue in the face trying to convince you to help put away.

Your latest obsession is goggles. You first learned of their existence when you saw your grandpa wearing a pair while swimming. Next you saw a bunch of kids wearing them in a clothing catalog. You are adamant that you need green ones and even came up with the idea that washing your hair without tears and screaming might actually become a possibility, if only you had some goggles. I'm just not sure where to find a pair that might fit your tiny face.

Lately, you proved that you do have your usefulness. I was sitting on the toilet and realized there wasn't any more toilet paper. I asked, and you actually went and got me some. Awesome.

You're also very good--shall I go so far as to say naggy?--about reminding me not to forget things before going out: my keys, my cell phone, money (to buy you snacks--your words), the bicycle lock.

But I worry about you. Mostly, I hope you'll be okay about getting on an airplane again and moving into your great-grandma's old house in Okinawa. It'll be a totally new place; you still don't like new. You'll be living with people you haven't lived with before and you won't see dad for a while.

It'll be an adjustment for me, too. No more running around the house without my bra on--damn it. No more casual meals slapped together for just the two of us. No more crazy dancing around the living room. No more loud and impromptu singing sessions. Possibly no more Internet--it's an old, uninhabited house.

Oh well, at least we'll be together.