Posts Tagged ‘ toddler ’

Do You Speak “2 And A Half Year-Old?”

Saturday, June 1st, 2013

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

Yesterday for our Friday afternoon routine where I take you to the park during my lunch break, I decided to make it extra special and go monster-truckin’ with you.

By that, I mean that we pretended our Craig’s List-purchased jogging stroller was a monster truck as we ransacked our way through the park.

By “ransacked,” I mean that we made screeching tires noises as I popped wheelies, rushed you down hills, and pretended like I was about to crash you into trees.

We stopped in the middle of a bridge over troubled water to look for fish. Being that it had just rained, I knew our chances weren’t that good.

But then you yelled out in excitement, “It’s Dimo! I see Dimo, Daddy!”

I had no idea what you were talking about. All I saw was an orange leaf stuck on a log in the middle of the creek.

When I took you back to school, your teacher Ms. Lauren asked you what you did with Daddy at the park.

You shyly looked down and smiled: “I saw Dimo.”

Ms. Lauren responded the same way I did, thinking you were talking about Barney the Dinosaur, as you typically refer to him as “Dino.”

You corrected us, as well as Mommy, once we got home: “No, Dimo!

During bath time, you talked to Mommy more about seeing Dimo with me at the park.

“I thought it was a fish, but it was just an orange leaf,” you explained.

It wasn’t until this afternoon when Mommy and I took you to Kohl’s to help pick out your cousin Calla’s birthday gifts that we understood.

There was a plush Nemo doll next to some Spiderman action figures.

“Dimo! I found him!”

And that’s when the light bulb went off. “Dimo” is Nemo. You found Nemo.

More importantly, you thought you saw him with me yesterday.

That’s why you were so excited with me at the park- you thought you saw Nemo in the water.

I’m learning to speak your language… the language of “2 and a half-year old.”

 

Love,

Daddy

 

Add a Comment
Back To The Dadabase

You Are Now Two And A Half, Entering The Flyover Years

Thursday, May 16th, 2013

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

I no longer have a 2 year-old son. As of today, I can start referring to you as my “2 and a half year-old.”

You are just as close to your (assumed) monster truck & dinosaur themed 3 year-old birthday party as you are to your Thomas the Train themed 2 year-old birthday party.

I look at you now and see how you’re clearly looking more like both Mommy and me.

Sure, the (now darkening) blonde hair and blue eyes are still a surprise, but gone are the days when I would write about how you don’t really look like either of your parents.

Something I was thinking about this week is how in classic sitcoms, by around the 5th season, the family would typically have another child, to better engage the audience with fresh new story lines.

From there, the next season would feature the zaniness of life with a new infant and baby. Then magically, the following season, that toddler who could barely talk instantly became a wise-crackin’, catch-phrase coinin’ 5 year-old.

In other words, producers of classic sitcoms evidently had reason to believe that the ages between about 2 and 5 were not interesting enough to entertain.

Okay… here we are. Let’s find out. As a 2 and a half year-old, falling in the category of what I call “the flyover years,” will  life still be interesting? Will you still be just as funny and entertaining to Mommy and me as you’ve been for the past 2 and a half years?

I’m thinking yes.

I’m eager to prove writers of classic sitcoms wrong, as if that’s even a thing that matters.

If you were a character in a family sitcom in 1988, you would be replaced today by a different, older actor.

Well, I’m keeping you. I predict life won’t skip a beat, even if you’re entering the flyover years.

 

Love,

Daddy

Add a Comment
Back To The Dadabase

It’s Easier To Ask Forgiveness Than To Ask Permission

Monday, May 13th, 2013

2 years, 5 months.

Dear Jack,

You have officially learned to spit. That’s both a good and a dangerous thing.

It’s good because it’s an important part of brushing your teeth. It’s a dangerous thing because I have to trust that you’re not going to spit at an inappropriate time or place.

I guess I make it more alluring for you to want to spit because over the past couple of months, I have taken up the Indian folk remedy of “oil pulling.”

Yes, I know it sounds weird. But two or three times a week on the drive to school, I swish coconut oil around my mouth for 20 minutes (it helps serve as a natural mouthwash and preventative of headaches for me) and then at the Nippers Corner crossing, I spit the coconut oil out my car window.

I always feel bad for whoever’s in the car behind me, especially if it’s a woman. I’m sure they assume I just got sick.

Each morning as you and I are getting ready to leave the house, you always ask me, “You gonna put that stuff in yo’ mouth?”

Watching me do my oil pulling is normal to you by now. However, I don’t think you’re totally clear on when it’s okay to spit.

With that being said, this past weekend on Mother’s Day, when Mommy told you that you couldn’t have a 2nd granola bar, but  instead that you’d have to eat more of the main lunch she prepared for you, you acted like you were about to spit at her.

After I put you in a time-out session providing me with enough time for finish my own lunch, I had you apologize to Mommy:

“I sorry, Mommy.”

You saw how important it was for you to apologize, so then about 10 minutes later, you apologized to Mommy again.

Within the hour, you had begun using “I sorry, Mommy” as a new way to ask for things.

“I play with Play-Doh? I sorry, Mommy.”

I guess it’s an interesting spin on the saying, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.”

 

Love,

Daddy

 

Add a Comment
Back To The Dadabase

Lost In Translation: “No Way, Bug! Get In The Cheese!”

Friday, April 26th, 2013

2 years, 5 months.

Dear Jack,

You are in the stage now where you’re piecing together catch phrases you hear Mommy and I say and incorporating them into your observations conversation.

Yesterday as I drove you home from school, I guess there was a gnat or something flying around you. This is what I heard:

“No way, bug! Get in the cheese!… You’re in trouble. No ma’am! Just chill out. Go find a home.”

From there, your conversation with the bug went from 2nd person perspective to 3rd person narration:

“The bug needs to find his parents. They hold him. They take care of him. That’s weird.”

I’m still a little confused about the cheese part. Do you want bugs to live inside of cheese wedges? Is that where they usually call their home?

The part I understand most from your conversation with/about the bug is this: The bug has a home where he belongs; where he has a Daddy and Mommy who love him.

Thanks, Son. That’s sweet of you to assume the bug’s parents love him the way Mommy and I love you.

I love your backseat radio show. That’s how I’m starting to think of it now.

In particular, I thought your rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” was pretty creative:

“Twinkle, twinkle, purple monster truck…”.

As you would say, “That’s weird.”

 

Love,

Daddy

 

Add a Comment
Back To The Dadabase

Hurry Up And Leave… So I Can Wave Goodbye!

Thursday, April 11th, 2013

2 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

I will admit I don’t always understand your logic.

Your newest tradition is to wave goodbye to Mommy as she pulls out of the driveway each morning. I gather that it is a time and tradition that helps you share a connection with her on a daily basis.

But this morning… as Mommy stood in the doorway, smiling at you, telling you to have a good day, telling you that she loves you, telling you that she will miss you, you just stared at her and said nothing.

The moment she walked out to her car, you got excited. You actually got giddy, even.

By the time she started backing out of the driveway, you were jumping with excitement, because finally, the moment had come when you would be able to… wave goodbye to her.

To spell out the irony here. you basically wanted Mommy to hurry up and leave so you could wave goodbye to her.

Your way of thinking is just different than mine, or Mommy’s, sometimes.

Like last night after I put you to bed and you were already overly tired to begin with, you sang at the top of your lungs for the next 15 minutes until I finally went back into your bedroom to remind you that it was time for fall asleep, to which you simply replied, “Okay,” then fell asleep a minute later.

I thought your song choice was pretty interesting, it was a medley of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,” and the “Alphabet Song,” all of which share the exact same tune.

As for me, when I am completely exhausted, like the way I am right now as I write this, the last thing I would feel like doing is singing songs at the top of my lungs.

Logic has yet to become a priority in your life. Enjoy that while you can, kid.

 

Love,

Daddy

 

Add a Comment
Back To The Dadabase