She's 2.38391
Updated: Sep 2
A milestone age. A little time that rests between two and "so how many months is two and a half again?"
At two, she is biologically incapable of responding to anything with any other word than "no." Sometimes you ask her a thing, and she plucks up and spreads a wide smile and lets out a plain, straightforward "no", tilting her head as she says it to really emphasize the sweet. We call this her southern no, a nod to my upbringing. Sometimes we get a "nah," a response like an old buddy, a slight hint of my time in the Midwest if you will. Then many times (these days) we receive a response so passionate, so loud, it can only stem from her genetics that hail from an area where people slam fists on car hoods in traffic to indicate their crossing (seen it), or folks who can somehow tell you to f*ck off and say hi to your mother in one breath. Rainie and 50% of her genetic make-up love to give a loud, proud, fiesty, and very passionate New England no. And I'm saying it's her New Hampshire, Boston-area bred father's fault. He did it.
I can't wait for her to channel the years I spent in Texas, a no similar to the southern no but with hair like Dolly (RIP perfect angel) and a "hell" at the start of her response. Or a Denver no, where she says yes, then doesn't actually do what she agreed to because it's a powder day. Or she got high.
Biggest change in her today compared to pre-two: strength. She has a lot of it. And she knows it so there isn't much she's afraid of. Anyone else feel like keeping them alive feels really hard? Rainie received her first and second incident report at school this month alone. She danced too hard and fell into a cabinet (haven't we all?). A long scratch took over her cheek and looks a bit like she got shanked in the face on the playground. Then, last night, as Tim was wrestling her into a sleep sack and she was proclaiming her loud and proud New England "no," she ran and jumped with a force so hard that her mouth slammed against her bed. Blood everywhere. Cries were frantic. And being our first "oh god" medical emergency moment, we did everything they say to do. Telehealth, mom group messages, contemplating an ER visit, some children's Tylenol, and a good ole mom cry and glare at the dad despite it not actually being his fault. After an hour of chaos, she calmed down and went back to smiling. Then she fell asleep, leaving us and our shot nerves to try and figure out how to sleep ourselves. I, of course, opted to sleep next to her and stared at her breathing for about an hour just to make sure. Because somehow a busted lip means she's on the brink of doom. Today, like an hour ago, she received another incident report. She was, I kid you not, dancing and fell into a diaper bin and hit her eye. Le sigh.
This morning, I dropped her off on the playground, lip fat and a long scar down her cheek. She took on the grounds like head baby of the toddler bloods (or crips?) claiming the large slide as her turf. She dove right back in, jumped off the highest platform and flew down the biggest slide. Now, apparently, she may have a shiner. Her teachers said the look is "on brand," so that's what I'm raising, folks. And... I mean let's be real... I kind of love it.
I will say that despite her teeth being okay, the doctor said if they turn gray, I'm to call him and let him know, because that could be nerve damage. So, you can now assume I'll be sleeping next to her and staring at her for an hour every night this month.
Next question, "How can you sleep next to her, Alyce? Cribs are small."
Well, friends, insert my next brilliant parenting move. In the past few months, we transitioned our little monkey into a floor bed, despite so many friends telling us to wait. I wanted to decorate her room with a beautiful bed to match the wainscoting I built. And there was this comforter and these jungle throw pillows and these curtains, etc. etc. In my home decor quest, I created a wee bit of a sleep monster. Now she would like to postpone sleep as long as possible in a room full of activities and a bed she knows her mommy or daddy could easily fit into. Wasn't my best parenting move, but we could all write a book on that topic.
I will say this: 1) her room is effing beautiful and belongs in a magazine and I will attach photos; 2) her bed is really comfy and full sized; and 3) sometimes I just want to sleep next to my wittle baby and coodle. Unfortunately, she has an acrobatic approach to falling asleep, which is a mother's way of saying she co-sleeps like an asshole. There is no right position or angle that gets her close enough to me, so she must contort every little appendage into the nearest crevice — an elbow shoved into a neck, a noggin in my armpit, a nose perfectly smushed against my nose, which makes breathing a whole thing. An entire little (strong) body passionately grasping all of me with such force that any onlooker would wonder if she were trying to kill me or crawl back inside.
And friends, they are, somehow, my favorite nights. I will miss every elbow shoved into my side one day. I just know it.
At two, she is so real now, this whole person who exists outside of me, with her own life and friends and habits. She is not a plump, rosy-cheeked potato I carry around, no longer a small extension of myself. I would say her name, make her giggle, and soothe her back then. I used to put love out and she absorbed. Now, she's autonomous. I'm not really sure the day it happened. She soothes me and has full awareness of how her little "it's okay momma" and gentle hug can transform even the roughest of days. She's now putting love out, and we absorb.
She says many things, but the one word that gets me the most is her name. She says it all the time and with full ownership, as though she plucked it from my lips and placed it onto her chest. This little name that had lived in my head since high school, and had played roles in short stories I wrote because I just loved it so much, is no longer mine. It's not the name of a squirmy thing inside my belly whose face I wondered about every night. It's not the name of this little potato. Maybe that's when it all shifted, when she declared her name in a way that indicated she now owned it. She's got it from here and she's defined it as something small and mighty, ruthless and loving, a little acrobat who can keep up with the wildest little boys and dote on the softest little girls. That is what her goose name now means in my head and I absolutely love this age.
I'd also like to note that as I write this, I am in my bed late at night, willing myself not to go into her room. Despite the busted lip and eye, she fell asleep on her bed without me in there, and yeah, I'm a little heartbroken. I'll never do the whole "I'd never co-sleep" speech again.
Now, enjoy some photos :)
Rainie danced in the daycare clurb.
Rainie turned two. She ate cake. Her parents partied with friends. For her, though.
She remained an icon of style and class.
SHE TOOK THIS PHOTO AND I AM NOT WELL.
AND THIS ONE. Why do you look like a teenager baby? WHYYY.
She went to the beach and saw her grandparents. And met my future son-in-law. Well, she's between the two.
She adopted self-care routines.
She climbed and jumped off or swung on everything. And sported battle wounds.
She lived in this heavenly little space.
And we loved on her and she loved on us a whole lot <3
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