Posts Tagged ‘
2 year old ’
Tuesday, March 19th, 2013
2 years, 4 months.
*Warning: Contains oversharenting.
My style of bathing you, compared to Mommy’s, is much more observational than it is hands-on. I basically just let you play for 15 minutes, then I hurry up and scrub you down at the very end.
I love watching “The Jack Show.” So entertaining.
Anything and everything becomes a toy. Like a cup. Or a spoon.
Last week you grabbed a cup, and then immediately afterwards, a spoon, to capture your… well, I’ll just quote you:
“It’s my tummy!”
You were so proud of yourself for “catching” what you thought was simply an extension of your stomach.
I guess, technically, or actually, it is.
Mommy and I have talked about it several times, but we still haven’t been able to figure out what words to teach you for that, or those.
Nothing seems right. Saying the actual word feels too… official. Saying a nickname feels too… ridiculous. It’s too soon, I think.
We are in that interesting limbo state where it doesn’t come up enough in daily conversation for you to really need to know what to call it, or them.. Really, that bath last week was the first and only time I’ve ever heard you recognize what’s underneath your diaper.
Granted, you watch me “go potty” nearly everyday; running over to catch a front-row seat for the action. So maybe you just assume that’s what people’s tummies look like? Or at least boys’ tummies.
Until further notice, it’s your tummy.
Add a Comment
Monday, February 18th, 2013
2 years, 3 months.
You can speak; and I’m not referring to a selection of the most necessary phrases to get through life as a 2 year-old. I mean that Mommy and I can carry on an actual conversation with you and you understand what we are asking or telling you.
Yes, you can participate in legitimate conversations now. Granted, there are some limitations; some concepts are just too complex for you to make much sense of right now.
I’ve been telling you how, here lately, you’ve been really picky about which roles Mommy and I can do. As I mentioned, I am now your wardrobe assistant/technician, whereas that used to be Mommy’s job.
This past Saturday the three of us were so busy playing in your bedroom, swinging the shaggy bolster pillow at each other and pretending that your Thor play tent was a ship on the stormy sea, that a couple of hours passed before we realized your diaper was pretty wet.
So we asked you, “Jack, who do you want to change your diaper, Mommy or Daddy?”
Your instant response: “Jesus!” The look on your face was completely serious.
It caught me so off guard, I hesitated as I attempted to answer you:
“Well… uh… Jesus can watch… but it needs to be either Mommy or me who changes your diaper today.”
You stood your ground:
“I want Jesus! I want Jesus to change my diaper!”
Thinking back now, I can’t even remember whether it was Mommy or me who actually changed your diaper. I just know it’s a very bizarre thing to think about. I mean, how do I explain to you why Jesus can’t change your diaper?
That’s a tough one for a 2 year-old to process.
I started thinking about how Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine. Then I started seriously thinking about whether any of His unrecorded miracles included changing toddlers’ diapers. You really got me thinking, kid.
This is only the beginning. You are going to be saying some pretty hilarious things without trying, as you’re new to this “real conversation” concept.
I will be here to help you as you get lost in translation. I will try to help you, at least.
Add a Comment
Tuesday, December 25th, 2012
2 years, 1 month.
Christmas is over. You are currently undergoing the culture shock of entering back into a world with no anticipation of an avalanche of gifts anytime soon.
That’s what happens when your birthday is so close to Christmas: You are bombarded with gifts for about a 30 day period, then suddenly… it’s back to reality.
I noticed how after you opened about 4 or 5 presents today, you started losing your ability to comprehend what the next gift even was.
Instead, you turned to me and said, “More gifts?”
And that’s what you said after every gift you opened from that point on.
I think in a few days, you’ll be able to comprehend that your Nonna and Papa (your grandparents on my side) got you the biggest Tonka firetruck I’ve ever seen- big enough to haul all your Thomas trains in.
Speaking of trains, you’ll also realize that your collection nearly doubled in a matter of a couple of days.
It’s like you just won a pie-eating contest. Sure, you won, but now you need to let everything settle and digest as properly as possible.
You need some time to settle back in to a world where instead of getting to hang out with family all day and open gifts, you are at daycare for the majority of the day with your friends and you barely get to see Mommy and Daddy.
I’m sure by the car ride to school tomorrow it will all start setting in.
It’s strange having a period of several days with virtually no stress, and then on top of that, receiving every toy you’ve been asking for.
Don’t worry, Son. I will be your guide back to the real world.
I don’t like it anymore than you do.
Add a Comment
Wednesday, December 12th, 2012
You know who Santa is now; not because Mommy and I have told you about him, but basically because of all the inflatable yard decorations you see on the way home from daycare everyday.
I have a feeling you won’t ever need me to fill in all the magical details about Santa flying through the air in a gravity-defying sleigh, led by a red-nosed reindeer.
Something that really fascinates me about you is how you know the difference between reality and science fiction, at only 2 years old.
Not only do you have bizarre Santa stories surrounding you, but you also have your Thomas the Train TV shows that you watch; accompanied by the matching toys.
That leads you to further use your imagination to make up weird story lines for your playtime. Even in the car yesterday, out of nowhere, you proclaimed:
“Santa crashed into the train… and the birds.”
You’re good at making up grandiose stories involving characters you’re familiar with.
Observing your bath time is always a wonderfully absurd theatrical production. That is why I love being your bath director when Mommy isn’t able to do it.
Your favorite episode is when the purple starfish bath toy speaks to her daughter; a Collie named Charlie.
“It’s Charlie’s Mommy,” you squeak out in a falsetto voice.
Then you walk Charlie closer to listen to his mother, the starfish. From there, it’s pretty much high-pitched Gibberish involving the Starfish mother telling Charlie to get ready for school… I think.
Seriously, how do you separate science fiction from reality?
As hilarious as you are when you play, you still can quickly convert to being more serious; randomly updating me with realistic tidbits:
“Daddy wears the fluffy jacket.”
“I like chocolate for dinner.”
“I stink… I poop.”
Switching back from the world of your imagination to the world of your perception of actual reality is something you do so flawlessly.
I think it’s safe to say you’re going to be a lot like me: You keep your head in the clouds, but you stand on solid ground.
Add a Comment
Tuesday, November 27th, 2012
I just never could bring myself to talk to you like you were a baby, even when you actually were a baby.
The closest I ever came was back when you were 7 months old, when one of my ongoing bits with you was to say, ”Ya wanna give ya Daddy-Waddy a kissy-wissy on da wippy-wippy-wippies?”
Basically, I was trying to playfully annoy you by puckering up real big and acting like I was about to kiss you on the lips.
But clearly, I was mocking the concept of “talking baby talk” to you. To actually talk to you the way I was supposed to, all cutesy… just the thought of it somehow made me feel phony.
So since the very beginning, I’ve always spoken to you like an adult. And really, so has Mommy.
You’re 2 years old now and we haven’t changed the way we speak to you. But you, on the other hand, definitely have changed the way you communicate with us.
You are now regularly speaking in 5 word sentences. I know that you grasp a good majority of what I tell you, even if you still haven’t figured out the meaning of the phrase, “I don’t know.”
(Right now, your version of “I don’t know” is just to simply look down at whatever Thomas the Train toy is in your hand until I change the subject.)
The main reason I love the fact you can understand what I say now is because I can more efficiently give you realistic expectations, which helps prevent surprising disappointments.
For example, when it’s nearing time for Nonna and Papa to go back home after a weekend of staying with us, I look you in the eyes and map out the plan so that you are not ambushed and consumed with anxiety a couple of hours later:
“Listen, Jack. I want you to know what to expect. After we eat lunch, it’s going to be time for Nonna and Papa to go back home. So make the most of this time because it will be a few more weeks before you will see them again.”
I am not worried about saying words that are too big for you to understand, because at this point, that would include a lot of words.
For what it’s worth, you can now say the name of Mommy’s home state: “California.” You pull it off quite well.
The way I see it, my use of words beyond your comprehension level (and/or reading level) is a good thing.
Besides, you’re used to it by now: You have a Daddy who has an English degree and a job in writing. For all practical purposes, I’m Ross Geller.
I have a feeling you are going to be one articulate little boy. Can you say “articulate?”
No, seriously… can you?
Add a Comment