This Boy

This is the boy who pinches the pages of his books and offer up the delights of what he has captured. "It's candy, Mommy."

This is the boy who rides his bike in big loops around our small living room, careening past the corners of all of our tables, parents on edge.

This is the boy who learned to ride a two-wheeler without training wheels at age two and half.

This is the boy who loves trucks and bikes and cars and airplanes and trains and motorcycles and anything that goes. He giggles when you tell him stories about dirt bikes and how he will ride them someday.

This is the boy who calls high heels "Spiderman shoes" because Mommy doesn't wear them but the ladies in the costume catalog do.

This is the boy who can balance in said high heels with more grace that Mommy, too.

This is the boy who is terrified of people in costumes. He has already declared his distrust of Santa Claus.

This is the boy who loves to pretend to be our baby. To be held. And rocked. And cradled. And sung to. "Hush little baby don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a..." "Dinosaur."

This is the boy who loves cats. Not dogs. Cats.

This is the boy who breaks into dance moves at the drop of a hat. And he has some moves, man.

This is the boy who wears and apron to help me cook and calls it his skirt.

This is the boy who hates the feel of dog hair on his hands. Who will call you out on a mess. Who makes me clean my house.

This is the boy who has the girls lining up to marry him.

This is the boy who can make rocket sounds all nap time long without falling asleep.

This is the boy who wants song after song at bedtime, sung about dirt bikes and race cars and kittens.

This is the boy who will take your quarter so he can pretend to play ski ball.

This is a boy who loves to sing and make up his own songs. Usually with only one loud, out-of-tune word.

This is the boy who will lovingly tend to his baby dolls needs, kissing her when she cries, and wrapping her up to lay her down to sleep.

This is the boy who has captured my heart.

Nothing Terrible... Yet

I face each stage of mamahood with a little nervous energy about how I will handle what's to come.
And so I entered the Terrible 2's.
And so far...
Nothing terrible.
There is only more of a unique, individual little person to love
as he grows and changes.

There is the way that he eats his cereal dry and drinks his milk on the side.
There is the way that he hollers "game" every time he has tried a new activity that delights him.
There is the way that he is enamored with his new flip flops that tickle between his toes.

When he wants to do it, he simply states "self" or "Lindan by self"
and now sometimes has learned to say "hurt" if he is worried to really do it all on his own.

He strings together 4-word sentences to tell us all about what he observes in the world around him
and each commentary is a small reminder to stop and notice the world around you.
Daddy no go work.
Papa walking street, too.
Thank you, Mommy, donut.
Oma sit next you. 

He will try new foods but often spit them out.
He will say "no nap" but easily succumb to a story and song
after a chase around the house and a tickle.
He will go potty wherever he chooses. Well, within limits...

He counts 1, 3, 7...
He tries to hit any wild pitch that comes his way.
He sings and he dances and he spins and he rolls.
He's working on a somersault, and his letters, and putting, and his tennis serve.

He drums on the table.
He reads to himself.
He swings on his belly.
And he climbs.
Fearlessly, he climbs.

There is a lot to be learned from a boy who is two...
And so far, none of it is terrible.

two

Dear Lindan,
I can hardly believe that you are two already- and on Mother's Day to boot!
You have made me one lucky, and very happy, mommy.
Your growth and change over the last year is indescribable.
I feel so blessed to be your mom.
I know, I know... I am sure all moms say this about their children, but you are one special little boy.

From the way that you wake up with a smile around your pacifier to tell me about what you've squirreled away in your crib overnight and played with quietly for a half hour or so until I get you up.
To the way we get to read books together at bedtime- with your exclamations of pure delight over every last kitty or truck or bike or ball.
From the bottom of your cute little feet with the gnarly toenails that tickle so much they are hard to clip.
To your blonde ringlets that I can't bear to see on the floor of the hair salon again- at least not yet.
From the time when we eat our breakfast together each morning. You with your cereal and banana, milk on the side. Me with me avocado and hard boiled egg that when I bite it, you call the moon.
To the dinners we have as a family when you scorn the broccoli (though you love to say the word) and eat all the meat you can, preferably dipped in ketchup.
From your preference to be outside, all day and night, weather conditions disregarded. (Unless it is windy, then you cower.)
To the quiet times playing with puzzles and dolls. Or the loud times inside when you ride your bike around the table and down the hall, announcing your delight in doing so. And always wearing your helmet, on the bike or no.

From our car ride to "school" while you play and read books in the back seat. Proclaiming "done" when you expect me to take something from you and "glasses bright" when you need your cool shades.
To the way that you'll climb up on Papa's lap for shelter as soon as it seems that mom and dad are going to take you home to bed.
From your growing vocabulary that includes: cute, silly, tiny, fast, and guacamole.
To the way that you've learned to love to snuggle, laying under a blanket, or head on my shoulder, giving warm, wet kisses.
From the way that everything has gone from being yellow, to all the colors of the rainbow. Or count 1, 2, 9, 8...
To the way that you now say "ball" and I feel a pang of longing to hear you say "doh" the way you once did... when you were a baby.
And now you call yourself "boy".
A boy that I love with all of my mama heart and more.

Happy birthday, Lindan.

A Day in the Life: 20 months

The last couple of snow days home have given me a taste of just how fast this little boy is growing and changing. Which is a reminder that I need to savor each moment and record a few, too. It's too easy to forget.

I might forget the ways that he stands up in the corner of his crib and waits quietly for us to come get him once we notice him on the video monitor.
Or the way he greets you with a bright "hi" and then says "nap" before he will cuddle his warm body, heavy with sleep, against you.

I might forget the way he will take a break from nursing to blow me a kiss, or beat box, depending on the day.
Or the way he insists on walking around in his sleep sack until he is ready to "zip" to see his pj's underneath.

I might forget the way that he fusses when you try to change his diaper or get him dressed.
Or the way he settles right in to watch Yo Gabba Gabba or Elmo while we get him ready to start his day.

I might forget these days when he needs his bib because he insists on feeding himself yogurt, and hummus, and cereal with bananas.
Or the way he insists on a smoothie for the car ride to daycare and then reads books in the back seat while I drive.

I might forget that there are days when he clings to me, and days he just runs away after blowing me a kiss.
Or the way he tells me about his day with just a few words.

I might forget that he has crying fits each day that we get home and it's too cold to play outside.
Or the way he'll finally settle for the prospect of coloring or playing trains.

I might forget the way he says "yew-ow" or "boookh" or or "iiissshhh" or "L" once he can say them the right way.
Or the way he asks for daddy whenever its just us.

I might forget the silly, crazy fits of laughter when I smother him with kisses.
Or the way he'll plunk right down in my lap.
Or lead me by the hand to show me what he wants.
Or help me in the kitchen by throwing peas in the pot or sprinkle salt in a bowl.

I might forget the way that he throws anything in his hand.
Or this bruise he gave me because of it.
I might forget today's first time-out when he kicked me for telling him 'no'.
Or the way he clung to me after it, with tears in his eyes.

I might forget how much he loves blowing bubbles in the bath.
Or running in circles around furniture.

I might forget these first timid steps on his tricycle.
Or the way he pulls his choice of snacks from the cupboards, along with half of the pots and pans.

I might forget the way he says "cheese" when he sees my camera come out and then "baby" so he can see himself on the display.
Or the way he wants to watch the video of himself on repeat as many times as we will let him.

I might forget the way he runs in a game of chase when he knows I'm trying to capture him for bed.
Or the way he'll sometimes cry his protest when he was having too much fun to go to sleep.
Or the way he'll fall right to sleep once you lay him down silently.

And then we get to do it all over again.
But it's just a bit different each time.
And each day he's just a bit more independent.
And needs me just a little less.
But I love him just the same.
Or maybe a little more.

Resolution

This year, my goal is to learn to use my camera.

Really use it.

I got a new fixed 50 mm lens for Christmas and I want to play around with it. I want to better record our lives, and frankly, I just love to take pictures.
As a part of this goal, I have joined a group on Facebook that challenges us to take a Picture A Day, on a different theme each month.
I'm less than a week in, loving it, and hoping I don't lose steam.

It's all very experimental (see part one of my goal: learn to use my camera) and quite fun.
This month's theme is negative space. You'll notice I have a couple of favorite subjects. :)

It's also fun to see the small moments in our lives that tell our story.
That we are still in our pj's at noon on the weekends.
The stack of clean clothes waiting to be put away in the background.

A naked baby playing.
The mirror that needs to be cleaned.
The box of toys that's been dumped out, just for fun.

And a lot of smiles.
It's fun to look back on those, too.