Dear Baby Eirinn,
You are two. My God, you’re two. Two years ago today, I gave birth to you with Daddy by my side, all your grandparents in the waiting room, and Ellen DeGeneres on the tv. Not that I was watching, the choice of programming was all your father and the doctor’s idea. I was too busy, you know, doing the required birthing activities. Two years may sound like a long time, but I can still smell the hospital smell, hear the hospital sounds, and envision the hospital room perfectly. Especially the fold out instrument of torture chair your Daddy had to sleep in while I laboured away all night. Kind of a fair trade, if you ask me.
One was an unbelievable year for you. When I think of all you have learned and how much you’ve grown and who you now are, I can barely recognize that One and Two are the same Eirinn. One year old you still toddled cautiously, spoke only a few English words but babbled on in bab-ese, and was as bald as a jaybird (nearly). Two year old you runs as much as humanly possible, is fluent in English (there are just some words you haven’t tried yet) but with a strong toddler accent (which sounds like a mix of Irish and Brooklyn), and you are currently working on a full head of hair (“working on” being the operative phrase). You know the alphabet (the song, not the letters), can count from 1 to 16 (with the exception of 13, 14, and 15, which are all 14 to you), can dress yourself in your outerwear, and can throw a temper tantrum like nobody’s business.
Leading up to two, you mastered sentences and are now telling us stories and relaying them in paragraph form. You are learning about cause and effect, action and consequence, crime and punishment. You are learning about these things but you have yet to allow such concepts to stick.
Skills we are working on, in a very non-boot camp type way:
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Colours. Some days you know them, some days you don’t. I think you know them perfectly and are just messing with Mommy and Daddy. Maintain control by allowing the adults to believe they are still smarter than the kid. Smart. I like it.
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Potty training. We’re still hoping against hope that you’ll show some sort of interest in the going diaper-free soon. You’ll sit on the potty just long enough to warm your bum then it’s off to see how much toilet paper you can fire off the roll onto the floor before Mommy loses her cool.
And that’s about it. I have taken a new laid back approach to my parenting philosophy (not that I’m laid back, I can throw my own temper tantrums too you know, but my philosophy is laid back). We’re not pushing much onto you right now. You are ahead of the pack developmentally and you are still above average physically, so we’re not worried about how you learn and how much you are willing to learn. We also know that when you are ready to move forward with certain skills (*cough* peeing and pooping the proper receptacle *cough*), you’ll let us know. We just hope you’re ready before June when the number of daily dirty diapers will increase exponentially. We’re just saying, if you’re looking for the perfect Mother’s Day present, that would be it.
Two has a ‘tude. Because you know everything, of course. You know everything and you should be able to do everything and who are we to try to tell you otherwise. This is mostly frustrating, but occasionally amusing. Especially when you try to assert yourself but mispronounce just enough of the words to sound adorable instead of mean. For example. One of your most frequently used phrases is ‘I don’t like it anymore’ except you pronounce it ‘My don’t yike it neny-MORE.’ I’m sorry for laughing. I know you were trying to be authoritative.
You don’t like it anymore because you don’t like anything anymore. Well, anything that involves consuming any sort of mineral or nutrient. Food can be rather offensive to you. Unless it can be tagged “snack.” Then it’s cool. But if it’s only label is “meal”, then it’s a non-starter. Even if you were perfectly content eating it, say, a week ago. Or even ten minutes ago. If it’s offered to you under the guise of “meal” then “my don’t yike it neny-MORE.” Except for breakfast. Like me, you eat 90% of your daily recommended caloric intake before noon.
Two is also unbearably sweet. Cavity-causing. You often tell us you love us (‘My lawb Daddy!’) without prompting. And your hugs have improved tremendously. They used to be a simple lean in with your head and the accompanying ‘aw’. Now they are a simple lean in with your head and the accompanying ‘aw’, but they last much longer. You greet us enthusiastically, with hugs and kisses and lawb, making us feel like we’ve done something right in this parenting biz and also letting us forget the aforementioned ‘tude.
I’ll miss One. You were still a baby for One. But Two will be fun (please God, let Two be fun) with your better grasp on language and proper behaviour (better, not perfect). Because now you are officially a Big Girl, growing and learning everyday. We’re about to get your Big Girl Room ready with a Big Girl Bed and your own mirror and everything.
But when we sneak into your nursery at night, to make sure you’re all tucked in safe and snug in your crib with your soother where it belongs and your two ah-lankies by your side, you’re still our little baby. Our Pumpkin. And that, that won’t change no matter how Big a Girl you are.
Love Mommy and Daddy
ps — Sorry about the length. I know Two instantly transforms your attention span to that of a gnat. If I lost you somewhere around Ellen DeGeneres, skip down to the ‘Love Mommy and Daddy’ part. It’s the only part that matters anyway.
