Last week you turned (drumroll please) Two. Years. Old. Mommy may or may not have just spent an hour looking at your baby photos and pinching my nose to keep from crying. Why is it that meeting you is something that feels like only months ago, yet you’re two years old now? Well, according to us, at least. According to YOU, you’re “two half.” Where you got the half from, I truly do not know, but you refused to ever say “one,” always saying you were two back at 18 months, so my guess is you think you’re six months older than you actually are.
Lord knows you ACT six months older than you actually are. A few weeks ago I was pushing you on the swing, and I noticed you leaning back and forward in perfect rhythm. You’ve already learned to push yourself! I’ve been telling Noah to watch you for tips! And you are talkative and active enough to fool everyone into thinking you’re older, too. I wish I could keep track of all the new things you say and how articulate you are, but you’re way too fast for Mommy. You’ve been speaking in full sentences around here (“Iwan eat Daddy lunch, too, Mama. Noah? Wan eat Daddy lunch, too?”), helping cook dinner, helping bake, mopping, gardening, washing windows, letting the dog outside to pee, calling Noah to come inside, crawling up the playground ladder all by yourself (even that curved one!) and sliding down, helping buckle your own car seat, opening and closing the car doors, putting on your own clothes and shoes, sitting on the potty (although rarely does anything come out), wiping yourself, washing your own hands, brushing your own teeth… I could keep going. In fact, I’m just looking around here in the kitchen for a single thing you haven’t tried to do all by yourself.
“I DO!” is your mantra. Everything from
dousing seasoning your plate with salt and pepper to opening and closing the door gets a “No, I do!” We have to let you try everything by yourself first, and only when you ask “hup, Mama!” can we step in. It’s very important WHO helps you too. If you want Daddy to get you down from your high chair but Noah tries to help, we will all suffer your wrath.
Ah, your wrath. Our family knows it well. Your tortured scream-cry when you don’t get your way, accompanied by hitting and throwing yourself on the floor has become almost boring. You make the BEST angry faces; we actually think it’s sort of funny now. You’ve been trying to improve your game, so this month you started grabbing fistfuls of Noah’s hair whenever his head is low enough to reach and just yanking the hell out of it. It’s funny because you truly are the gentlest, sweetest child I know. And I can tell there’s no real malice in you when you pull Noah’s hair; you just think it’s an interesting reaction out of all of us as we yell “ow!” and “stop!” and rush over to untangle your fingers from his hair, respectively.
Your big brother is still your favorite person, really. (Well, you are QUITE fond of your playmates Edie and Eli, and ask for them by name on a DAILY basis. And recently you ask for the whole family by name “I wan see Edie aaan Li-Li aaan Wachel aaaan Wuh!”) But your brother is the person you dance with joy to see upon waking up in the morning, the person you ask about constantly when he’s at school, the person you ask about as soon as you wake from your nap. When he’s gone you want to sit in his car seat, play with his toys, put on his clothes, do the things he does. In fact you want to do everything he does ALL the time. He has taught you (much to Daddy’s and Mommy’s displeasure) how to shoot finger guns, how to jump off of high surfaces, how to play all kinds of games, how to get your own water, how to pretend a hanger is a bow and arrow, and a whole bunch of words and sounds. He drives you CAH-RAY-ZEE still, mostly when he has something you want or he tries to show you how to properly work something or “help” you with something that you want to do by yourself. I hear a lot of frustrated screams coming from your direction, and it wears on Mommy and Daddy. But when you’re getting along… oh joy and bliss!
My favorite thing in all the world is seeing you play and communicate with your brother. At dinner you ask him if he wants more “bled” (bread). You ask him “Why, Noah?” when he tells you something you don’t understand, and he patiently explains (“That’s just the way the world works, Vi.”), and you say, “Kay.” “Wait! Tiss, Noah!” you yell from the kitchen as Noah heads out the door for school. He comes back in for a kiss and the two of you embrace. “Good day, Noah!” you tell him. Last week Noah got hurt and cried pretty hard. I held him for a while, and you ran over, chanting “kay, Noah? Kay, Noah? Kay, Noah?” and tried to break the two of us up so you could get your own hug in there. “Kay, Noah?” you asked as you frantically pushed your way between us and put your arms around his waist. You asked so many times he finally stopped crying, sniffed into your hair, and mumbled “I’m okay, Violet.” “Shawy, Noah,” you said as you pulled away.
It was the best. Thing. Ever.
It’s actually harder when Noah is at school than when you’re both at home, because you get so bored without him. You’re so social and you LOVE to be around your friends, and no toys are very entertaining for you so there’s not really anything exciting to do at home. You put your shoes on right after breakfast and tell me that you’re “weady doe, Mama!” I have to figure out something to do quick because by 9:30am you start losing your shit. You love to eat but I think you might be eating out of boredom when we’re home, because if we’re at the library or park you don’t bug me about food. At home, though, you’re always asking me for a “nack!” I admit it, Boo… Mommy hates how often you want to snack. You used to ask me to nurse all the time though, and I’m glad you’re starting to realize when you’re hungry you need to eat and not nurse, so I comply. “Would you like a banana?” I ask, still trying to limit snacks to fruit. “No, nack!” “An apple?” “No, NACK!” “Strawberries? Pears?” “NO! NO! NACK!” I sigh and ask in a tiny voice, “cashews?” “YEAH! TATTEW! I wan ahmin milk too, Mommy.”
Despite all the ways you’re “two half,” you are DEFINITELY still my bebe girl. You would live on my hip if you could. Wherever we are, no matter who else is around (even if NO one else is around), you want me to be holding you. You want to be on my level, doing whatever I’m doing: cooking, folding laundry, sending a text, checking email, talking to other adults. A few times lately I’ve even gotten out the Ergo, just because you refuse to let me put you down. And Boo-Boo, let me tell ya. You are HEAVY. People comment on Mommy’s arms looking strong and all I can say is, with as much as I am holding you, THEY SHOULD.
It’s just like when you were a baby. From the first time I held you on my chest and you were content as can be and the nurses and midwife were amazed that you didn’t cry, to the days I wrapped you up in the Moby, to the nights I slept with you in my arms, to right now, at the dining room table, where you rejected the FIVE CHAIRS in favor of my lap, you just want to be next to me. “I wanna hold yoooou,” you croon, and I tell you “I wanna hold you toooo,” and it’s true, even though I do wish you would give me a break from time to time, just sayin’.
One more story, because I think it sums you up so perfectly right now, and I hope you never lose this. I play a game with your brother and you, where I ask you both “Who loves you?” or “Who loves you the most?” The answer, of course, is “Mommy.” I would also accept a finger point. Noah always used to say “you do,” or he’d pat me on the back, or sometimes he’d say “nobody,” like freakin’ Eeyore. When I ask you, however, you go: “Mommy!” And I’m all, “Yeah! That’s righ–” but you cut me off. “Aaan Daddy. Noah. Mammaw. June. Edie. Wachel. Wuh. Li-Li. Ellen….” and on and on it goes until you run out of names, which takes a surprisingly long time. And I just stand there, watching you think of all the people who love you the most, and when you’re done I tell you, “That’s right, Buddy!” It is right. To know you is to love you.
I love you, Boo. Happy Birthday, and may TWO be the best year of your life so far (that wouldn’t be hard I guess).