Second Year

We have a 2-year-old. It’s official. We have no more babies. 

In fact, he was more than eager to tell me just that.

Recently, I was conversing with the Doozer about the present sleeping arrangements in our house (the two currently share a bedroom, not ideal for anyone, including us). And when I put forth the theoretical notion that if we moved to a new house, they could each have their own room, the Doozer wasn’t interested. I mean, not even a little bit.

But, I pointed out, wouldn’t you like to sleep alone, have your own room, and not share it with your little brother who cries and fusses and wakes you up and generally seems to bother you?

“Yeah, but I would be lonely without him,” he said. Seriously. Are you trying to kill me? Are you trying to break my heart? He went on to tell me that he would sleep with his little brother forever. As long as he’s a baby. Not exactly the definition of forever that I’ve heard, but okay.

From across the room, Little Brother (who was engaged in something and showed absolutely no sign of paying attention) stood up and declared, “I not a baby right now. Dad.” Dad. Not Dada, not Daddy. Dad. Full of scorn and outrage and bitterness.

Okay then.

So, two years. That sure went by in a flash. And what a life in those two years. So much he’s experienced and so much more to go. Crying. Screaming. Complaining. Whining. Just kidding, it only seems like these are his only activities. There were other highlights.

He stopped calling himself Ju-June Medicine and started pronouncing his name correctly. He decided he did not like fish crackers—which he told me through a mouthful of the same crackers, while he held two fistfuls of them at the same time. This winter, we learned he loved taking off boots and socks while riding in the car—especially in sub-zero weather. Who does this? 

He fell in love with Tegan and Sara. He fell out of love with Tegan and Sara. He had his pseudo-goth phase when he became obsessed with Lorde. He learned to dance and wield his spoon/fork hybrid with something resembling accuracy and dexterity. He tossed one of his big brother’s favorite stuffed animals into the bathtub. I only had my back turned for a second. (Of course, it was better than the time—times?—he urinated in the tub while sharing a bath with his brother.)

He joined a Baby Fight Club. At least, we think he did. Otherwise, we have no idea where all the bumps and bruises came from. Except of course for that one-person demolition derby he keeps having that nobody else is participating in. Because he’s a weirdo. And a maniac. I have decided that his lucha libre moniker would have to be El Destructo.

He decided his mother’s name is “Mwawm.” That’s the best way I can present it, phonetically. It’s crazy. What kind of accent is that? He heard Pearl Jam and said, “Mama, I do not like this guy.” Whatever, he probably doesn’t like you either. I guess you’re still my son. 

Happy birthday, kid. I love you. 

And I will try not to throw you out a window, you tiny maniac.