Tomorrow is Tuesday. Tomorrow my baby turns two. I suppose this is about the time that many a mum might come down with a classic case of baby fever and start feeling that familiar itch for all things teeny and tiny. They see a pregnant lady out and about with boobs busting and belly drooping and can almost feel the little kicks inside their own empty tummies. They visit with friends whose wee one just started to giggle and balance all itty bitty 15 lbs of her on their knee, smiling, cooing, and marveling at her remarkably small fingers and toes. They may even miss those middle of the night feeding moments when mom and baby bonded so lovingly, and wax nostalgic for a time with their tot lived nearly every minute in their arms.
Nope. I’m good.
Holding my buddy’s babe is fantastic because she’s fucking adorable and I love her to death and when she starts to get a little too pissed off I can just hand her right back. We Elders are not shy about the fact that our baby factory is officially closed. Two is the magic number. Three not for me. We have all the love we need in this family and we’re happy to keep Elderland a party of four.
So in honor of the fact that I’m actually quite comfortable about the impending second birthday of my baby boy, I believe I’ll write a little list called “Ten Things about my Two Year Old”…
1. Crosby started out a bit on the long and scrawny side, as many newborns do, but by the time he hit 12 or so weeks he was a solid butterball of a baby with fat rolls for days, and he has been a chunker ever since. Of course these days the mass quantity of calories he burns from never ceasing movement have at least diminished his wristles (like cankles, think about it), but he’s still a hefty little man and weighs nearly as much as his two years senior sister. I have every expectation that he’ll be taller than his daddy by high school with some seriously strong legs, and though I’m fairly opposed to having a child play football, I wouldn’t mind having a future World Cup star on my hands (USA takes it in 2034??).
2. The hair. Oh my god the hair. We waited well over 20 months before we got Crosby his first haircut, and did so then only because we grew so wary of every stranger we encountered calling him a girl. No matter how boyish his outfit, it was all she-her-so pretty-your girls-blah-blah. Looking back on the photos, I kind of get it, but his glorious mane of silky blond curls was just too amazing to lay scissors to. When we finally gave in, Pete took him without me, which was probably for the best lest I convulse with each snip and yell at the stylist. I all but commanded that Pete not let the woman cut off more than an inch or so, just enough to push him back toward the boy side of the spectrum, and she really did a bang-up job (PUN!). He’s had one cut since, but for now we’re keeping it longish because I mean damn, the kid has dreamy California surfer hair, and I’m seriously jealous.
3. The range of what he eats is somewhat narrow, but when he finds something he likes, he goes all in (see #1). And when I say all in, if we’re talking about hummus, I mean ALL in – all fingers, hands, cheeks, lips, forehead, hair, belly, and who knows where else. Hummus, or Thomas as he likes to call it, is definitely Crosby top five fare, and while he’ll occasionally opt for a dipping vehicle like carrots, crackers or pretzel chips, those are entirely unnecessary as he’d just as soon scoop it out with a spoon. No spoon? No problem! That’s what these ten little digits are for. The boy likes his Thomas. I suppose there are worse vices.
4. Crosby has taken to using the training potty quite frequently, enjoys a good celebratory potty dance after accomplishing his goal, and while still fully in diapers for he hasn’t completely grasped that you can’t just pee when and wherever, he almost exclusively poops in the pot. He gets very excited when his poops are of noteworthy size, calls “Mommy/Daddy/Grandma come look!” to show off, and even commends us for our own pottying skills post pot sit – “Good job, mama!” On a less proud note, one small side affect of all this fecal joy is a favorite new game of his which involves straddling whichever of us is sitting or lying on the floor and exclaiming “I poop on you!” before bursting into giggles. Boys.
5. He has a tiny scar below his right eye from a terrible spill he took off the front of the jog stroller because stupid mommy thought letting him ride like this was a good idea and he face planted on the sidewalk proving me very wrong. I know chicks dig scars and all that, but he’s going to be handsome enough without it and I hope it mostly goes away. #momguilt
6. He talks a lot. In complete sentences. It blows my mind and makes me ridiculously happy. Sure there are plenty of words he still struggles with, or perhaps just mindfully opts for his own version of (see #3), but his vocabulary is what I’d consider vast for a two year old and I’m not ashamed to brag about it. He’s also shy and when we get around folks he doesn’t know well he tends to clam up and hold on to my leg, smiling coyly as he peaks around, so not everyone gets to enjoy his jib jab, but we hear his lovely little voice every day and it never fails to bring a smile to our faces. Even when he’s saying things like “I poop on your penis!” Because come on, it’s funny.
7. In classic boy fashion, he loves trucks and tractors. Dump trucks might be his favorite. He has a book about all sorts of trucks and from it has learned to identify things he sees on the road like scoops, bulldozers and cherry pickers. He gets adorably excited when out the window he sees a truck drive by our house and tells us all about it – “I saw something! A big truck!” – and the day we paid a surprise visit to the Mebane fire station and he got to run around the garage and sit in the trucks might have been the happiest moment in his life to date. And while I’ve never been the type of mom to push gender specific toys, I can’t help but love how much of a little boy he is. He also loves baby dolls, tea sets, and the color pink (which he occasionally refers to as fuchsia). So there.
8. One of his top front teeth is chipped and has been for almost as long as he’s had front teeth. I can’t tell you how it happened, but it did, and it only adds to the charm of what is surely the most amazingly cute and contagious smile this world has ever laid eyes upon.
9. Bed time routines are the best because a) they’re routine and everyone loves some good old fashioned reliability and b) they signal impending adult time for mommy and daddy for things like watching netflix, reading the New Yorker, blogging, and staring at the walls in silence. Aside from the expected bits of his routine like teeth brushing and diaper changing, Crosby has thrown in a little of his own flare to keep it original. One such step is to wait until the last moment after which we’ve put him in bed, turned out the light, turned on the sound machine, and turned toward the door to say through his pacy “sing me a song.” His first request is generally Twinkle (for Twinkle Twinkle Little Star of course), followed by Sunshine (for You are my Sunshine), and up until a few weeks ago when he perhaps grew sick of it, the third and final request was Wrecking Ball. And who I am not to oblige my baby boy with a little Miley before night night?
10. Ninety percent of the time Crosby is the happiest kid people have ever met. Seriously, we’ve been told as much again and again, “that is the happiest kid I’ve ever met!” About half of the remaining ten percent is made up of the occasional injury induced tear-fest, often brought on by a sister induced injury, but only when she thinks we’re not looking, and it’s hilarious to see the look on her face when we catch her in the act – “what? wait? me? no, i didn’t? huh? you saw what? that doesn’t make sense.” That final five is the worst as it brings out the tyrant in our darling baby boy, mostly in response to him not getting his way, our response to which is a firm time-out, his response to which is to cry for a minute, then stop and flash that irresistible smile (see #8), our response to which better be to look away lest he see us melt and know that timeout is obviously over. Clever little bugger.
Happiest of birthdays to our favorite son, the one and only, Crosby William Elder.