(and for sunshine, cheese, and a hot bath).
Today you are 2 years and 5 months old. What? Okay, okay. You’re two and a half (almost). Something tells me that you’d just want me to round up, move on, and get on to the good stuff.
That’s how you are—all action. Run. Jump. Climb. Hop. March. Throw. Stomp. Scream. Growl. Climb some more.
As you climbed (by yourself) into your car seat this afternoon, I thought of the first time I ever snapped the buckles of your car seat shut, how small you were, how nervous I was.
What happened to my tiny, quiet baby? As your daddy said tonight, you are adrenaline in a bottle—a bottle in the shape of a skinny little blonde two year old. We’re accustomed to growth spurts but it seems like you’re in the middle of an energy spurt.
Sometimes your energy comes through in the most hilarious ways, like when you sing the heavy metal version of “Baa-Baa Black Sheep,” while Emily squeals for you to be quiet. Other times, your energy propels you to climb on the table where you proceed to do the Hot Dog Dance. Sometimes, the energy simply causes you to spin in a circle until you fall down, dizzy drunk. Other times, it is frustrating, like when you refuse naps or fight bedtime.
Eventually, like all batteries, you need to be recharged, and lucky for me, you like to rest by snuggling up with your mommy. I just paused writing this letter because you climbed into my lap and asked to rock. Any time, Bear, any time.
Since September, you’ve been asking for quite a bit. In September, almost overnight, you found your words, or more specifically, your sentences. Previously, you were putting a couple of words together and occasionally a short sentence. While we were at the beach for Labor Day weekend, you suddenly started stuttering. By the end of the weekend, the stuttering had almost disappeared, and in its place were all these words and sentences! The dam opened and the flood of words just keeps coming.
You love to talk about trains and planes and cars and trucks. I asked you yesterday what you wanted for Christmas, and you were quick to say a train and a race car. If Halloween was any indication, you are going to have so much fun at Christmas (second only maybe to your parents)! You can make anything into a boat whether it’s a basket, the tray for your high chair, or the drawer out of the end table.
You are learning so much. Just today, when I picked you up at school, you started telling me the shapes on the rug. You knew you were sitting on a yellow oval. You know your emotions, too, and during a rather emotional morning recently, you asked, “Mommy, you sad?” Wow. And then there’s the way you can count to ten and say your ABCs, know the color orange, and can pronounce every syllable of the word hydrocortisone. You also know just how to torture your sister—whether it’s singing over top of her, stealing her tricycle, or hitting her with the golf club.
You are learning, too, how to use the potty. You definitely know what it’s for. You will sit on the chair and make a whizzing sound before saying “all done.” For now, we are taking that as a step in the right direction. One skill you have mastered, however, is climbing out of your crib and opening the door. Heaven help us.
You’ve mastered the art of charm, and it appears even Cinderella is under your spell. During our trip to Disney World in October, we attended the Electric Parade where Cinderella leaned towards you and blew you a kiss. Unprompted, you eagerly returned it by blowing another one back. Cinderella happily caught it, put her hand over her heart, and leaned out of the carriage to give you another wave. Don’t get any ideas. You and Emily can’t date until you’re at least 16. Cinderella is no exception.
I often joke that when you and Emily turn 16, you will also be sharing a car. Your daddy thinks I’ve lost my mind. Judging by the way you share now, it could go either way. One minute, the two of you are inseparable, playing intensely and contently. The next minute, you are banging each other in the head with your daddy’s Wii remote or running away with the other’s half of the banana. If things don’t change, even getting you matching cars won’t stop the disagreements. As it is, you have matching high chairs and matching tricycles, and you still both want the one the other one has.
Don’t get me wrong. You love each other just as strongly. Recently, when Emily was sick and we had to pick her up from school, we decided to leave you there. Bad idea. You fell to pieces. When I picked you up that afternoon, you looked up at me with your sweet blue eyes and said most seriously, “Emie, sick? Emie go to the doctor?” I realized that day how few times you and Emily have been apart. Even when you had tubes put in your ears in May, Emily was there, sharing the hospital bed, getting matching tubes.
As we tucked you in a few minutes ago, you asked me to rock you. I did. You asked for a hug and kiss. You got it. You asked for another one. You got that, too. You called out, “I love you.” My love? Oh, Drew. You’ve got that, too. More than you will ever know.