I am going to miss two so much. I know, that is not immediately obvious but that’s because if I talked about how magnificent RR was all the time you’d call social services to discuss my crack habit.
She still can’t pronounce her L sounds. She went to a birthday party and rode on a fire engine, coming home with a red balloon and incredible tales of fighting fires.
I HAVE A BEYOON, MAMA! IMA FIREMAN! I YIKE IT SO MUCH!
She adorably assesses everyone’s personality positively.
He’s a nice man, mama. And you’re a nice yady. Mama’s a nice yady, too.
She remembers that we’ve been places and that, even though I was out of town at the beginning of last month, I came back as promised. She never misses the opportunity to remind me. The joy in her voice makes me feel like I’m constantly winning at life. Transportation, in particular, is something she’s particularly invested in. There are several train tracks in town and we regularly celebrate their use:
(Upon seeing any airplane and remembering our trip to Chicago) We went to Acado, mama! Member, mama?
(When I open her door after a nap) You came back, mama! I’m so gyad!
(Passing under an unoccupied train track, mournfully) No train taday, mama. No train taday.
Bedtimes follow a strict routine: one story (of late, a modified “Olivia Goes to Venice” – modified because that Olivia has too much sass), one rendition of some small made-up story (of late, Louis the Kangaroo who, unfortunately, loves to bounce so much he hits his head on the moon – despite his mama’s good advice), and one lullaby repeated until she shouts, goat-like, for D to put her in the crib (of late, Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree). At the conclusion she leans up to whisper in my ear:
I yove you SO much, mama.
Her toys have elaborate conversations. She builds complex block towers and alternates between fearlessly sprinting everywhere she goes and dragging her feet endlessly while she picks dandelions and blows the seeds up into the sky. She climbs the railings lining our concrete steps while D winces and she picks increasingly higher heights to climb onto and jump off off, all while announcing, “I don’t want to fawl, mama, I will never fawl.” She can’t decide.
She is able to walk a half mile to the park, play for two hours and walk home again, uphill all the way. She takes several small breaks: to greet a pen of chickens, to peer at the endless construction between home and the park, and to read stop signs. Every so often she asks to ride on our shoulders. Every so often, she takes a moment to fling herself down and enjoy the sunshine.
No, two is not so bad at all.