I've been brainstorming an article over the last few months called "This Two Shall Pass." Spencer, my two-year-old, is a doll, but he is SO two. He dumps buckets of cars and army men all over the living room, screams when Ethan won't let him hold the red light saber, wakes up the whole family at 5:30 a.m., and wants to do everything "all by myself."
The point of the article (which won't actually get written until Spencer is three) is that even though two-year-olds are incredibly challenging, the age is going to pass, and I'm going to miss the everyday fun of living with Spencer.
For example, when I'm working on my laptop, he'll slide a blanket into the kitchen, lay down on it, and say, "Pull me, Mommy! Pull me!"
And every time I turn around, it seems he's grown another inch...and learned 18 new words...and discovered how to stack cups higher than his head. I can literally see him getting taller, smarter and more skilled each day.
Then when I'm at the kitchen sink, scraping pizza remnants off the plates and trying desperately to get the hardened eggs off the forks, I look up and see this:
And then I just want to hug him and kiss him and make him promise to stay two forever. I know someday I'll be washing the dishes, and I'll look out the window, and I'll wish that there was somebody pressing his nose against the window--hoping I'll smile or pat the glass or make a silly face right back.
I can hardly stand the thought of my children leaving, but at the same time, I can hardly wait to sleep in once in awhile, go to the store without diapers in my purse, and rest by the side of a swimming pool without keeping my eye on someone. I keep reminding myself that those days are going to come. Two, five, fifteen, and eighteen will all pass. I just can't get too frustrated with today.