You are two and a half now. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, but I’m trying here.
First things first. I am really, really sick of looking at your pee. I know “Mommy! I went POTTY!” is the sound of heaven’s bells to some, but I really just… I can’t. All day long, I am cleaning out your little toilet — or helping you get situated on the big one. A couple weeks ago, the whole process magically clicked for you, and we’ve been 99% accident clear since then, including #2s, which you are particularly happy about. At any rate, my quota of urine-viewing has been filled several times over, and anytime you’d like to lose the novelty, I will fully support you there.
Next topic: you slowing your role a little bit, short stack. Hit the brakes some, half pint. Ease up on the growing up, small fry. You told me yesterday that you wanted to go to kindergarten. When I told you you weren’t old enough yet, you were ready with, “How ’bout preschool?”. How about you’re two, and, as pictured, you are still tempted to eat paint. Still, there’s no hiding the fact that you are more and more kid and less and less baby. Your voice has been getting very little-boy. You smell like little boy lately. You didn’t cry during Fourth of July fireworks or during your last hair cut. It was weird. Nice, but weird.
You and I are having quite the summer. We stay busy with play dates and movies and church and copious pool time and our doses of “culture” (namely the library and discounted museum tickets). You are making so many friends. By making friends, I mean that you allow others to play in your general vicinity, occasionally offer them some of your snacks, but typically orbit solo.
Bird, you continue to eat me out of house and home. You love food, so much. You’re up for any adventure if it includes snacks. You and me, we understand each other there. But sometimes, you gross me out. Like when you want scrambled eggs and a side of peanut butter for lunch. Or today, when you dipped your pecans in blueberry yogurt. Oh well. You do you, son.
You are tall and skinny. Brows and knees. Eye lashes and long legs. Round cheeks and square teeth. You get nine second winds a day, at bare minimum. You are exhausting. Handsome. Funny. Smart. Holy smart. Like the kind of smart where you are still under three feet and can count over fifteen, identify obscure shapes (trapezoids, semi-circles, crescents, parallelograms), and memorize books. It’s disarming. You also have this way of slowing the pace and raising the volume of your speech while simultaneously nodding up and down when talking to people. To be honest, Carter, it’s a bit condescending and you should probably knock it off. We all know what you think of us.
You love your family and your cousins and your second cousins. Every night, you pray for Baby Sean, Landry, Miley, Kami, and Cooper and “new baby” Emery Grace. After that, you tell me you “forgot something”, and we go through all your friends’ names, too. You are very concerned with the habits of the sun and the moon and how they “change places”. You love Team Umizoomi and the Little Einsteins, the colors of the “rainbows” dancing through the windows, your blankie/significant other, popsicles, and shooting hoops with your new “Carter-Size” basketball (not to be confused with “Exer-Size” balls). You talk. You talk nonstop. You dance every day. We draw and play blocks and read and shoot hoops and cuddle a lot. You hate time outs with a fiery passion.
You are my pride and my joy and my wonder. You are blue eyes and summer-brown skin and all the best things, and because you are you, I am me.
It’s you and me, Carter Patrick, and we make the best team.
Love you, always.