Second Birthday
Today the pipsqueak is two years old. What a funny little thing he is. Last night, while I got him ready for his bath, he was singing, “Coke, Coke, Coke.” Skeptical that he really knew what he was saying, I asked him, “What is Coke, you silly?”
He just grinned back at me. “Coke is...?” I prompted, thinking that he might say, “Soda.”
“Tasty!” he finished instead. I guess he did know what he was talking about.
Oh, pipsqueak, my pipsqueak. How you wear your emotions on your sleeve. When everyone sang happy birthday to you over the weekend, I thought your smile couldn’t get any bigger. “I’m happy,” you say. Or sad, or mad, or scared, or funny. You are a little bundle of visible, raw emotion. And just in case I can’t tell what you are feeling, you tell me, your blue, blue eyes wide with joy or your lower lip emerging in a little baby-pout.
While big brother relishes the lyrics of a song, you cannot help but move to its beat. To you, music means dancing – vigorous, whole-body dancing. The kind of dancing that works up an appetite, and luckily you enjoy food as much as music. I think the vast majority of your first words were food-related – pizza, chocolate, cookies, cake, tea. You remind me of the joys of decadent eating, beaming in your high chair. You are even enthusiastic for broccoli and tomatoes. I think you just celebrate the pleasure of eating, the sensual experience of taste and texture. Plus, you like to rub food in your hair. Oh my.
To big brother’s sense of order, you impishly introduce chaos, knocking over his carefully built block tower or sneaking over and snatching his favorite toy from the elaborate game he has set up. And then you run, shrieking with the thrill of the chase. How is it that little siblings know how to drive the older ones nuts from the very start? But even when you are naughty, you are full of empathy. “Sorry, sorry, T,” you tell the squeaker, your big blue eyes wide and sincere. But then you do it again...and again.
It seems that I was just toting you around in that infant car seat. How can it be that you are a walking, talking little person already? How is it that you are already zooming around the house in your toy car, narrowly missing walls and furniture with a last-minute spin of the steering wheel? I cannot slip downstairs to do laundry without you running behind me, your arms out: “With you! With you!” you say.
Pipsqueak, my pipsqueak, I’ve tried to hold you close at night to breathe you in, to feel your baby warmth, to get as many “mooches” as you will give me. (“Kiss you. Kiss you. Mooch?”) You are so little – only two! – and yet I cannot believe how fast you have become the little you that is so very busy, so funny, so naughty. Love you, pipsqueak. Happy, happy birthday.
He just grinned back at me. “Coke is...?” I prompted, thinking that he might say, “Soda.”
“Tasty!” he finished instead. I guess he did know what he was talking about.
Oh, pipsqueak, my pipsqueak. How you wear your emotions on your sleeve. When everyone sang happy birthday to you over the weekend, I thought your smile couldn’t get any bigger. “I’m happy,” you say. Or sad, or mad, or scared, or funny. You are a little bundle of visible, raw emotion. And just in case I can’t tell what you are feeling, you tell me, your blue, blue eyes wide with joy or your lower lip emerging in a little baby-pout.
While big brother relishes the lyrics of a song, you cannot help but move to its beat. To you, music means dancing – vigorous, whole-body dancing. The kind of dancing that works up an appetite, and luckily you enjoy food as much as music. I think the vast majority of your first words were food-related – pizza, chocolate, cookies, cake, tea. You remind me of the joys of decadent eating, beaming in your high chair. You are even enthusiastic for broccoli and tomatoes. I think you just celebrate the pleasure of eating, the sensual experience of taste and texture. Plus, you like to rub food in your hair. Oh my.
To big brother’s sense of order, you impishly introduce chaos, knocking over his carefully built block tower or sneaking over and snatching his favorite toy from the elaborate game he has set up. And then you run, shrieking with the thrill of the chase. How is it that little siblings know how to drive the older ones nuts from the very start? But even when you are naughty, you are full of empathy. “Sorry, sorry, T,” you tell the squeaker, your big blue eyes wide and sincere. But then you do it again...and again.
It seems that I was just toting you around in that infant car seat. How can it be that you are a walking, talking little person already? How is it that you are already zooming around the house in your toy car, narrowly missing walls and furniture with a last-minute spin of the steering wheel? I cannot slip downstairs to do laundry without you running behind me, your arms out: “With you! With you!” you say.
Pipsqueak, my pipsqueak, I’ve tried to hold you close at night to breathe you in, to feel your baby warmth, to get as many “mooches” as you will give me. (“Kiss you. Kiss you. Mooch?”) You are so little – only two! – and yet I cannot believe how fast you have become the little you that is so very busy, so funny, so naughty. Love you, pipsqueak. Happy, happy birthday.
posted by Blue Moon Mama at 7:28 AM
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