Dear son:

Happy Half Birthday! Today you turn 2 and one half. Which might not seem like a big deal to you but a) you’ll come to find out that I like half birthdays much more than regular birthdays cause they’re sort of special and sneaky and most folks forget about them so if you remember, how cool are you?!!? and 2) we’re half way to 3, a.k.a. a light at the end of a tunnel (not *the* light – I know that light will not come for years and years until you decide at the age of 12 that you want to go to Reed and will start saving for college by rebuilding diesel Land Cruisers from Australia to be Portland-oriented biodiesel machines, but *a* light nevertheless).

Most days these two thoughts cross my mind: I *love* 2.5! It’s so much more fun that 1.5, and definitely more fun that .5 or -.5 (when you were jamming your ever so dainty foot into my rib). But then there’s the other side: I *hate* 2.5! Why are you so loud/demanding/yelling at me at the top of the stairs because you want a “cook-wee” and I said “no” and therefore am violating your Bill of Toddler Rights which apparently includes getting to watch your train video, spin on your belly on the coffee table, go outside to play in the mud even in the pouring rain, and have limitless access to sugar all at your convenience?

It’s really like the whole Ross/Rachel thing: “I love Ross! I hate Ross! I love Ross! I hate Ross!” Why why why do I feel like *I’m* becoming Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Oh, you and your wiley toddler ways.

I Love Ross/2.5
Singing: You sing. Oh, how you sing. “ABCs” – with all the letters, except “w” is just “double.” And if you’re sad, you just randomly murmur “Q R S” in very sad tones. You sing “Row Row Row Your Boat” except it sounds more like: “Row Row Row Boat Stream. Mary Mary Mary Dweam.” And we only know you’re singing “The Entsy Wentsy Spider” when you do the hand motions for spider and “washed the spider *out*”. Out is very important – whoosh. You sing songs from the cds we check out at the library, but mostly just the last words: you’re going to be very good at faking like you know the lyrics to songs when you get older – definitely a way to win friends and influence people.

Letters/Numbers/Colors: If we’re walking through the store, you’ll randomly call out “D!” Why? Because we’re walking by the *D*eli and there’s a sign. “C-A-T” spells “cat” which you know thanks to “Mouse Paint” (a.k.a. mow pain). We’re working on our teen numbers: “ten, eweven, twelve, firteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, sewen, eight, nine, twenty!” A work in progress. And thanks to “The Color Kittens” you have “all the colors in all the world” down, except for purple which you refuse to say in general: “Nope.” How matter of fact.

Helping (a.k.a. “hepwing”): You like to help, whether I need help or not. And you look at me with these big blue eyes while pulling all of the baking goods out of the cupboard saying “Hepwing? Hepwing? Hepwing?” Yeah, sure: helping. But some ways you really do help. You put your clothes in the hamper at night. You like to carry bags of groceries in. You hang up your coat and put your shoes away (true, generally I find your socks shoved into *my* shoes and your coat in random drawers, but still). You throw things in the garbage can, help make the bed, try to comb your hair, and tell Jacks “NO!” when he’s doing things he’s not supposed to (which includes being annoying, which he is a lot, so your need to “help” with Jacks in a fairly hefty duty).

I Hate Ross/2.5
Yelling: You yell. A lot. A very angry, clinching your fists and scrunching up your body and trying to muster your superpowers to bend me to your will. I’m so confused and fairly pissed that I don’t really know what to do: time out has now become a more frequently used word in this household. And a more frequently occupied place. Dude: not the way to grease the wheels of commerce to get what you want – sugar, baby, sugar is the way to go. Offer me a backrub: clean up your toys: eat your dinner without getting up a billion times, and I’ll be putty.

Destruction: You like to destroy. Toy tubs must be flung over. Books should be walked over and crumpled. Car wheels must be bitten off. Buttons must be gnawed off. Legos should be thrown. Couch cushions should be flung from the couch, whanged on, and unzipped. Blankets should always be thrown on the floor. Neatly stacked library books should be pushed over to cascade all over the carpet. Remember: I worked at a library – I *like* *things* *in* *their* *places*: they have a home for a reason. Things: homes: things: homes: please don’t help me wish that you lose your thing-home.

Meal times: I remember when I was pregnant with you. Hubby would come home, we’d whip up some sort of sustenance or get take out, sit down in front of the television, watch Rachael Ray make a real meal, talk about the day, and chill. That was about the most peace and success we’ve had at having a Family Meal Time. Now we sit at our dining room table because a) we finally have one and 2) it fosters “family time” (a.k.a. not allowing child to become tv zombie time). Except we don’t sit. “JJ, it’s time to eat. JJ, sit down. JJ, sit up. JJ, eat a bite. If you don’t want to eat it, that’s fine, but you still have to sit here. Come back here. Now. Back. Sit. You can get down, but you’re not getting any more food for the rest of the evening.” What you don’t see is us get up multiple times, JJ flopping in his chair, JJ running away, JJ choosing to put himself in timeout rather than eat his dinner, JJ wailing when he hears that he can’t get more food like a “crah-ker” or “banan.” Sitting and eating: who knew they were a luxury?

Nightmares: The other night I woke up to hear you crying. I lugged me and my girthiness into your room to see what was going on (secretly dreading that this aspect of parenting will soon be returning to my repertoire – sigh). You were asleep, but you’d tense up your entire body. flinging your hands in front of your face, relax, cry, and tense up again. I couldn’t wake you up; I couldn’t calm you down. I know we all dream, but I hadn’t thought about that you can have nightmares, and that you probably do now, and that I can’t fix it. It took all my strength not to have a little hormonally-induced pity party that night: how can the bad stuff get to you while you’re sleeping? Give my baby some peace!

I’ve joked with friends that I’d like to send 2.5 back: it doesn’t meet my satisfaction. But then I’d miss out on all the goodness, so I guess it’s best to ride out the storm. You’ll mellow out sometime, right? . . .

Randomness:
You love to sleep with your bear, which has now become Brown Bear, and you must be kissed, and then Bwown Bear and then you and then Bwown Bear.

You love to point out when dad is eating pizza (a.k.a. “peetseees”): sometimes you eat it, sometimes you don’t, but it should certainly be noted that someone in the house is indeed eating pizza.

When I’m in the bathroom, your favorite activity is to sit in the tub with my bucket o’makeup, open up all the containers, and paint yourself beautiful, because you know that “you’re worth it.”

While we’re at the store, you make certain to say hi to the cart-gatherer-guy, laughing at all his “interesting” jokes.

You only escaped from the nursery two times at MOPS today.

When we drive to the library, you start saying, “Way cool” when we pull in the parking lot. Likewise, you get all giddy when we drive by the street that goes to Dad’s office, and it’s a Red Letter Day if I actually find a parking spot and we get to go in.

While I in the shower the other day, you a) found my hidden phone), 2) called Gran, and iii) put her on speaker phone. It’s odd to get out of the shower and hear a woman’s voice in the house, but at least you didn’t call China . . . that I know of.

Your love for trains and trucks cannot be contained. It may have to do with the fact that your love for Bob the Builder, Mythbusters, and Thomas the Tank Engine, and Dirty Jobs is equal.

You like to come over to my belly, put your face real close, and ask “Bwover, what are you dooooing?” and then give him a kiss . . . or if you’ve pulled my shirt up, maybe a lick (oy). How are you my childhood dog reincarnated?

If I’m sad or upset about something, you climb into my lap, put my face in your hands, look very seriously at me, wipe away my tears, and murmur babblings of encouragement, always ending with a kiss.

Oh, 2.5 and your wiley, wiley ways.

JJ Jawings, Mama Musings