Two is a sudden burst of verbal growth, stringing together sentences like, “Mom! Put down that poop and give me a huuuuuug.” It’s a continuation of hoarding, blocks and snacks and stuffed animals, everything, all at once and right this moment, please and thank you. It’s a newfound love for broccoli and an insistence that she loves tomatoes, even when she spits them out every.single.time.
It’s sunshine and thunderstorms – highs and lows, laughter and tears – with the rainbow showing up each night at bedtime when she asks to play Pat-a-Cake and look for owl holes in the rustic headboard, slowly, quietly – wheels turning, soul filling. It’s markers on the windows, crayon scribbles on the table, granola between the couch cushions. It’s, “Mama? Play iPad cuppa more minutes please? Just a cuppa minutes. Promise.” It’s manufactured phone conversations with neighbors, organizing her own play dates for the week ahead.
Two is skinned knees and smelly sneakers (just my kid?) and finding 800 different ways to explain obedience, or more accurately, lack thereof. It’s pounding down the hallway, the slapslapslap of dirty, bare feet. It’s sweaty, curly tendrils above the ears. It’s flushed cheeks, high-pitched squeals. Crocodile tears.
It’s “faster, faster!” and “louder, louder!” and “higher, higher!” It’s growing pains and hide-and-seek and “I want it” and “I don’t want it” and “I’m sorry” and “Kiss it, Mama” and “Now!” and “Later” and “Yes, yes, always yes” and “I love you, too.”
Two is mischievously, feverishly, exhaustively divine.