turning two

In a few weeks, you'll be two. You'll be at the age of exploration and adventure, the age that everyone has nothing good to say about it. But I will sing its praises because two will not be much different than one year, eleven months and two weeks. You might grow another inch or four in the next sixteen-days but you'll still be that smiling boy who thinks that the tripod is a microphone. Who screams "FRENCH FRIES" at the top of his lungs. Who cannot leave the house without a hat on his head. Who prefers to wear the hat a little to the side and slightly crooked. You'll be the bossy boy who insists I wear socks AND shoes around the house. You'll still insist that I take a bath instead of you and repeatedly say, "Mama's. Mama's. Mama's." when I ask if you're ready for a bath. You'll be independent as you sit at the table and spoon your food into your mouth and eat everything from your plate and half of mine as well. You'll still be trying to con me into giving you six gallons of orange juice a day, looking at me like you've just had the most brilliant idea and then saying, "Juice." as you take my hand and pull me to the fridge. You'll do it with fruit snacks too, which I hope in two weeks you'll still be calling, "soot sacks," and wrinkling your nose as you do. You're going to be two and you'll probably still call it "four," as you hold ten fingers out to anyone who asks how old you are. You'll still be trying to figure out how to put your shoes on by yourself and you'll probably still run away when I ask if I can help you. You'll surely still be coloring with chalk on the dog's kennel and I'm sure I'll find some rogue chalk picture on my walls and on the back of my beige couch. You'll still be insisting that the dog get roughly 45 bones a day. And while I'll be the only protesting this situation, I've noticed that you're now tall enough to reach the treats shelf in the closet and there's really nothing stopping you from giving the dog as many bones as both of you want, while you say, "Sih! Sih!" telling her to "sit," which also often comes across as a four-letter curse that breaks us out into laughter that we cannot contain. You'll still be working on your ABC's and counting to ten and I probably won't correct you when you say "yights" because I love how you talk. You'll probably still have those mornings like the one we had the other day, the one that was filled with you running through the house and screaming at the top of your lungs whenever I looked at you. You'll probably still take bathes that leave more water on my tile floor than in the bath itself. I'll probably still be threatening to take away all of your bath toys, too. You'll probably still insist on taking a minimum of 25 books to bed with you each night and we'll still hear you reading yourself to sleep. You'll probably still wake up at seven thirty on the dot and you'll probably still want eggs every morning for breakfast. I'll definitely love you more then than I do now, in some impossible way that makes my heart grow bigger and more full of love for you every moment of every day. I'll still be praying for more patience so that when you are screaming at me and pushing me out of the room and slamming your bedroom door in my face like a mini teenager, I'll be slow to anger and rich in love. You're going to wake up one morning and you'll be two and it won't even feel any different because of this (not-so?) gradual escalating movement you have made from a helpless newborn to a not-even-walking one-year-old to a running and laughing and talking two-year-old. My heart will probably explode one hundred times at least on your birthday, just like it does every single day, but on that day especially because you will forever be my first baby, my first little love, my first son. And I'm so thankful that you are mine.