And Now We Are Two

Oh, my boy, my boy, he has turned two. And I can barely believe what a magnificent little creature he has become. Because he will always be my only child, I feel like I hold on to the moments, or at least hope to, in my mind in ways that aren’t practical. I want every possible bit of him to be “this” forever–this age, this sense of wonder, this amazing bit of frustration, because I know it all changes so quickly.

He has turned two. And with age comes a vocabulary that’s both hilarious and interesting all at once. From the room at the end of the hall I hear, “Mummy! Mummy! MUMMY!” at 545 AM. Why? Has he crashed out of his crib? No, he’s all in one piece. Has he broken a bone? No. As before, still intact. Has he had a bad dream? Not that I can tell. What does he want? For me to BLOW HIS NOSE. I mean, of course, I do it during the day so why would I not be available in the middle of the night to provide the very same service? The mornings, while starting far, far too early, are really lovely–he likes to cuddle in bed, always under the covers, and read, or just chatter away until he can’t stand it any longer and the thrill of JUST BEING UP has taken over and then he wants to go downstairs and so he can pull out the ukelele (the “uncle-layle” as he calls it), or “listen to some violins!” (symphonies are just as worthy of the manic jumping up and down, shaking back and forth, brilliant jump-frogging that defines his dancing). My husband has taught him a ‘song’ of sorts, which consists of him singing, “I got the oat-meal blues!” that he shout-screams while strumming (plucking?) the instrument. Only he says, “oh-ta-meal” and not “oatmeal.” And it’s hilarious. Also often on rotation is the theme to Mighty Machines. And then it’s time to whip out the toy piano and he’s off again imitating Elmo or his father or who knows what comes over him. Every single moment seems precious to me and I know I’m over-analyzing, being overly sentimental, but I really don’t want to forget. Here’s just a short clip–of course he’s more interested in what’s going on with us taping him than performing, but still…

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He’s still so small, and yet I find myself completely amazed by how his mind works. There’s a book he adores called The Carrot Seed, and when we were at Ikea the other day, they had they giant stuffed carrots, so we bought one, which we don’t usually do. We are working hard to curb the wonderful and good intentions of his family to consistently spoil him, but I couldn’t resist the carrot–and how easily he made the association from what he reads to something tangible. He has kept that giant stuffed carrot at close ends since it arrived. I’m okay with that. Oh, there’s temper tantrums, the embarrassing kind, the middle of a giant, crowded store down-on-the-floor wailing so everyone looks at you kind of explosion, but I’m calmer about it. I could honestly care less what people think, the scorn, the frustration, the anger of their looks, bully on them–they were once two and I bet they’ve been less than perfect in more than on situation. We’ve managed to do some really monumental things in the last little while–trick or treating for the first time (my cousins gave us a skunk costume; it said “Lil Stinker” on his butt [his choice of costumes; we had two to pick from]). We had a birthday party where he actually understood that he would have cake and a couple of presents. And now we’re on to Christmas where RRBB has informed me that he’d like a “violin, a cello and some drums” from Santa but recognizing that he’s “scared of Santa Mummy.”

As the end of the year approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about what the next year needs to look like, personally, professionally. We are out now from the stress and tragedy of his birth, my disease is stable, our lives have a relative even keel, even if we perhaps are feeling out of sync a little with each other, with this other person now in the mix. Corners of my life are returning. I’m writing a little bit more, squeezing it in here and there. While I’m not reading at the pace I would like, I have managed to get through some great books lately, and I hope to get back to more regular blogging. Oh, sure I’m still stressed to the hilt and ultimately mad at something all the time, but we’re making good progress. I’ve brought my lunch for almost three weeks in a row. We’ve only ordered food once a week over the last few weeks. I’ve got my slow-cooker back. The weather is changing and I’d like to keep it that way–we sat and watched the hurricane in real time a few weeks ago. Of course, like so many people, my petty suffering can be reduced to cliches, but what it really made me think about was how I wanted to leave the world for my son. What I wanted to teach him about what matters and what doesn’t–in a sense, that we’re curbing the presents, the stuff, the gifts for very specific reasons–that we don’t need all that stuff, that he doesn’t need all that stuff, that the world certainly doesn’t need to make all that stuff. I know I’m being hyperbolic, but I’d really like my kid to enjoy snow this year, which means we need some of it, to have the kind of winter that I remember, falling down on your ass while skating and throwing yourself into an amazing pile of snow–and we can’t do that when it’s 10 degrees in November.

I’m rambling now. I wanted this post to be about where I want to go in the next year, to think about New Year’s resolutions and holiday recipes and what home really means. Perhaps tomorrow…