Unincredible as it may seem to you now (i.e. the future), it is kind of amazing to me now (i.e. the past), as I write this. We’ve been parents for two years already. That’s NONSENSE. I think we’re both pretty happy with how things have turned out so far. Judging by your eternally curious, cheerful demeanor, you seem to be as well.
In preparation for your birthday party, which was a lovely little affair on our deck, we taught you how to answer “How old are you?” when asked. You are more than happy to shout back “I’m two!”, though usually it came out more like “Iii two!” Your capacity for little exclamations like these is growing stronger every day, and we take advantage of it when we can by feeding you words and phrases. The cutest one in your arsenal has to be “Yay did it!” which you picked up from a frightfully boring iPhone game. The announcer in the game delivers that phrase with all the excitement of an accountant reading tax code, but you’ve given it your own relish, letting it loose whenever you succeed at something. A lot of your words get muddled or shortened, but this one is very clear, with a crisp “t” sound at the finish.
One of our less favorite phrases is “I need that” or “I need” followed by whatever it is you think you need. Your choice of “need” is probably only a function of it being easier to say than “want” or “would like to have”, so we try not to take this as a sign of your impending insolence. Usually we can get you to repeat the request with “please”, and followed by “thank you” (“eetoo”), which we count as something.
Mom has noticed that you have a bit of a Swedish tic in your speech. When we’ll ask if you want something in particular, like a book, you’ll say “Book, ya… book,” with this easygoing Scandinavian lilt to your voice. It’s super charming.
You’ve solidly embraced your new bed over the last month, often keeping to it during nighttimes and naps, and only rarely splaying yourself out on the floor instead. For your birthday, Grandma Amy made you and extraordinary quilt for it — the fabric is festooned with images of monkeys riding on boats made of bananas. Every night we have a routine, you lay down under the quilt, with your head on the matching little pillow, and I lay down next to you. We read a book or two — usually Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, which you call “Boom Boom”, and Flat Stanley, which you call “Hey look” (the first two words of the story). Then, because I don’t trust my singing voice, I pull out my iPhone and play you a song. While you were in your crib, any song would do, but not any more. You’ve honed in one, and you can’t go to bed without it. It’s Madeleine Peyroux’s gorgeous cover of You’re Going To Make Me Lonesome When You Go. I’ve heard the song probably a hundred times by now, but I still find it moving. Every time, I wish I could fall asleep right there with you. (Not that you always go right down yourself, but we’ll overlook that for now.)
The last month has seen a bunch of activity, with the warm weather finally arriving. We visited Lamb’s Farm and saw goats and sheep and pigs and horses and a rideable miniature choo choo. We had a block party, which featured an inflatable castle, bubble solution, a opened fire hydrant, and best of all, a visit from a fire engine, which you got to walk all around and through, with wide-eyed wonder. We also travelled to Massachusetts on a airplane (“ibeam”) to hang with a bunch of Mama’s friends and their kids. Even though it rained most of the weekend, you had a ball running around playing tag with all the older kids. You especially admired eight-year-old Jonah (“Nona”), who took you under his wing and helped you navigate the waters of hanging with the elementary school set.
It’s been an exciting two years, kid. It’s going to get even more exciting from here. I’m up for anything, as long as it involves you learning how to poop in a toilet.