By Cristina Bedwell
My youngest turned two today and I’ve been a little teary. It started last night. I took some video of him running around with balloons we got from a friends birthday party earlier that day to use it as a Happy Birthday Facebook post for him. He’s so joyful in the videos. SO BIG. Running around with confidence of a boy, not the wobbly baby run of 4 or 5 months ago.
Then I put him to bed. Bittersweet. Last night as a one year old. I hugged him tightly and laid him down in the crib (how much longer until we change to a toddler bed?). Then I stole one last sweet kiss through the crib slats and closed the door with a sigh.
He speaks in multiple word sentences (granted, 99% start with “I want…”). He runs and jumps and climbs, and SO FAST. He started day care a couple weeks ago, and goes 3 days a week. It’s not just him and me every day now. His world is expanding.
He is two. And two for this kid is a whole different ballgame than it was for our first. Townes became a terrible two a few months early, and it’s been trying. Despite being veteran parents of almost 5 years, we don’t quite know what to do with this one. He throws us some mean curveballs. I suppose every kid gives you something different that makes you feel like a first time parent all over again, right? Bumbling, unsure of yourself. All out screaming at the drop of a hat for no apparent reason? Check. Turning into a total terrorist every time we go out to eat? Check. Shrieking at ear-splitting decibels the instant you tell him no? Check. Check. CHEHHHHCK.
But he’s also the sweetest (when he isn’t screaming). When he is giving kisses, he gives them liberally, and after giving one to you, will say “Elliott kiss!” and run to give his brother one. He is an enthusiastic giver of cheers and sometimes dinner can’t start until we complete several rounds of cheers at Townes’ insistence. Our oldest son is very into baseball and Townes is voluntarily Elliott’s Bat Boy, running to pick up his bat when he drops it to run to first, and collecting hit balls and returning them to his brother. We call Townes the Barnacle because he has a special attachment, both literally and figuratively to me, and while sometimes this is exhausting, it is sweet and I know when he stops wanting me to hold him I will be heartbroken.
Such is the mindset of the mom watching her last baby grow up. (And to the people asking me if I am going to have any more, I’d be happy to show you a video of one of Townes’ epic meltdowns). He might be a terrible two, but I’ll take it.