Yesterday morning, you rolled around in half-sleep, kicking your feet down my shirt, into my face, and laying them to rest on Dinah’s head.  Dinah will tolerate abuse from any loving human — she would have made a great mama cat.

Finally your feet made it back to my mouth, and I nibbled your toes.  You laughed.

Though I could have used a few more minutes to lie in bed, I was already getting annoyed at your rough touches.  Because you are rough.  And you are loud.

You say everything with an !

” ‘tend eat it Mom!”  (You yell as you hand me a playdough creation.)
“Go outside and watch Matches play catch Mom!” (Certainly not in question form, you demand to see Matthew and your dada playing catch.)

You ramble.

“Do you ant to see my new bouncy balls? They are so cool. They are awesome. They are in the car. Let’s go get them!”

You are polite.

I ask, “do you need a new diaper, Sam?”
“No shank you mama.”

You ask sweetly, “Please may I have more?”

You are exact.

Bringing your dad his “basketball cleats” from the closet, wearing one on your arm, the other carried along, you tell us, “I have one on my hand and one in my hand.”

Imaginative.

You pretend to eat, you pretend to swing a bat, you pretend to pitch a ball, you pretend to dribble, you pretend to run from the dragons swimming in the carpet. And then, “gotta go catch them, Dad!”

Demanding.

Sit down Mom. Clap for me Mom. Get up Mom. No, Mom! My want play catch Mom. My want so much, Mom. So much! (We try to use the smallest bowls so we can fill up to the top, as you demand.)

Excessive.

“My am wearing my glove on.”

Enthusiastic.

“Let’s do it!”
And my favorite — on arrival you often wake in your carseat after a short nap, shouting “yay!” and clapping your hands.

You are insistent.

No, my do it! My do it! No, my try! My gonna get the ball!

Generous.

“Let’s share,” you say, as you eye my snack.

Proud.

“Ta da!” (After just about anything)

Inquisitive.

“What you doing, Mom?”
“What is that?” (You say what instead of who.)
“Why not?”  I’m certain you learned this whining phrase from your brothers. You’ll even start saying it before I answer no.

Possessive.

My ball. That’s my food. That’s my ball.  That’s my car.  That’s my chair.  That’s my couch. (As you push me off the cushion.)

You are two.

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Tree plus tree

April 1, 2011

Today we snuck to town for sushi and ice cream, and you laughed.  You laughed and laughed.  Then your dada laughed and then I laughed and you laughed some more.

It’s hard to see anything else but you, sometimes.  But when we were at the ice cream shop, I know there were other people smiling because of you.

The best thing about being your parents is that you laugh at our jokes.  Doesn’t that sound self-centered?  But I think you know what I mean.  It’s nice when someone just gets you, you know?

You’ll be two on Thursday.  There’s so much I want to tell you, so much I want to teach you.  Can I fit it all in? In those infrequent hours we keep?  I must have worked 56 hours this week, and the weather hasn’t been too bad, so you’ve spent much of that time outside, walking around town.  Your dad takes you to the post office, and to the coffee shop, and you visit with the dogs out behind the coffee shop, and you look at the water in the creek.  You eat orange chips. (Sounds healthy and fruity, doesn’t it? They’re CHEETOS.  Shh, don’t tell my mother.)  You take a ball or three to the tennis courts, you take a basketball to the basketball hoops that are on every block in our town.  You do all these things and I barely see a glimpse of you sometimes until I stop working, and this week, it wasn’t until 6 on most nights.

You are very two.  Everything is all yours (speaking of self-centered).  And of course, you want to do everything yourself.

You say, “my do it” and “let my try.”  You say, “my phone” and “my ball.”  You want some very exact things, but haven’t the patience (though I bet you have the words) to say what it is.  “Stop Dada!” you yell, when he follows you to my office door.  And then when he reaches you, you throw yourself down to the floor crying.

Most of the time, I’m not in a meeting.

But sometimes I am, and I’m sorry, but seriously kid — you gotta stop that.

You can dribble 8 or 10 times in a row now.  You still hit the ball, but now we see you watching it connect with your swinging bat.  Max asked you, “what’s one plus one” and you answered “two.”  Not sure where you learned that, but your brothers aren’t copping to it.  They want you to shine all on your own (for now).

Baseball season starts tomorrow.  Your brothers are ready. You’re ready too. You’re ready to play. “Please may I hit the ball, Mom?”

Where are you going? I ask. You tell me, “Target to buy d’new Curious George. We’ll be right back. Bye mom.” [blows kisses kisses, waves]  “Bye!”  “Bye matches.” (matthew) “Bye!” [waves, blows kisses] “Bye Kesey, bye balls. Please can bring some balls?”

You’re clever.  When your dad asked you, “What’s tree plus tree?”  You answered with a smile, “two.”

Yup, two trees.  You have so much to teach me.