23 months, almost

Dear K,

You're going to be two soon! You're not really a baby anymore. When you were a newborn, we had to guess what was wrong when you cried. When you were one, we could usually figure it out, but we could pretend we didn't understand when you asked for a sip of Daddy's beer. Now you can tell us what's wrong, and we have to argue about it.

You tell us all sorts of things. And you've started ordering us around, too. "Mommy sit on that!" "Daddy turn off nightlight!" (Or, my favorite, when you don't feel like walking: "Carry you!") You notice emotions, getting upset when you hear someone crying or when someone is scared in one of your books. On your turtle drawing pad, you like to point to the turtle and grin and announce, "This guy, happy." Then you point to the worm and frown and say, "This guy, sad." I'm not sure why you think the worm looks sad, but I'm glad you empathize.

You've been learning some manners too. Every once in a while, you say "please" unprompted. You say "You're welcome" when handed something, and "Thank you" as you're giving something away. It's the thought that counts.

You've acquired quite a vocabulary. You know your alphabet, your numbers up to 12, your shapes and colors (except for green and red, which you mix up). You also know lots of song lyrics, which I hear you singing while you play on your own. Having mastered "yes" and "no" a while back, you've moved on to "maybe," "pobly," and "I think so." You learned the word "mustache" a few weeks ago and have been trying your best to apply it, offending some female relatives in the process.

We can tell you're almost two because you are all about testing your boundaries lately. The surest way to get you to do something is to ask you to do the opposite. I know when you're about to misbehave because you pause and lock your eyes on me before deliberately hurling your cup to the ground. And then you wait, with more curiosity than defiance, to see what I'm going to do about it.

Your favorite toys at the moment are the electric train and the little multicolored train cars, the turtle drawing pad, the big dump truck, and the "band in a box" that you got for Christmas. Santa asked Grandma to get Mommy's permission first. Wasn't that nice? Grandma thought I wouldn't like all the noise, but I love when we have a family jam session, all shaking our maracas and banging our tambourine and dancing around.

It's hard for me to believe that a year ago you couldn't walk. Now I can barely keep up with you. You're always off running somewhere, and you love to be chased. You haven't mastered jumping yet, but you're working on it.

You've been getting acquainted with the various body parts. You like to pull on your toes in the bath. Today you looked at me and shook your head, saying, "Toes stay on. Not come off."

The other day I was sitting on the edge of your tub, getting the towel ready, when I felt your little fingers at the waist of my jeans. "Mommy, tummy," you said. "That's right, that's my tummy," I replied. You pointed between my legs and said, "Mommy, penis." "I don't have a penis," I said. You raised your eyebrows. "Mommy, penis," you repeated, probably thinking you must have heard me wrong. "Mommy is a girl. Girls have no penises." Your jaw dropped open and you backed away. A long discussion ensued about all the people we know, whether they are boys or girls, and whether they have penises. By the end you got it, but you still didn't like it. "Mommy," you cried, "No penis!" "It's okay," I reassured you. "Daddy has one and we can share." Oy. I need to get better at my explanations before you're old enough to ask followup questions.

Love,
Mommy