One month until you’re two years old. TWO. It doesn’t seem possible at all.
You’re becoming so interactive — saying hilarious things when you have no idea that you’re being funny.
Here are some posts I’ve made on Facebook about you in the past month. (By the time you read this, the idea that I used Facebook may seem quaint, if you even know what it is.)
This morning, Sage once more showed that she absorbs everything. I was struggling to get her coat zipped.
Me: Hang on. Hang on. I can’t get the zipper… quite… hang on.
Me: Yes, I’m trying. Please stop moving. Hang on.
Sage: ‘Oh, booger’?
Ann: Uhhh… yeah, that’s what Mommy says when she has trouble with your coat.
My not-quite-two-year-old daughter is watching her favorite show, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
Goofy: What shape is THIS hole?
Ann: …well, it’s an octagon…
“Dat coffee, Daddy? You wike coffee? MORE coffee, MORE coffee!”
“Yeah, you don’t need coffee.”
“YOU dun nid coffee.”
“Daddy, I poop.”
“HA HA HA HA HA!”
“You’re still grounded.”
They open a book. The door open! Heh. Tea party. They’re dancing! There they go! Hi, waving! Birds. Tweet tweet! Ha ha ha! And a horse! Whoa! Hi! Yeah. The First!
-tonight’s narration by Sage of the opening of Sofia the First
Sage, casually, during her snack, looked up at me and said, “Hewwo, Daddy. Aw you habbin fun?”
Tonight, we had some good friends over with their son, who is 5 months younger than Sage. He finished dinner before she did and started playing with one of her toys. She started calling, “Joe. Jooooooe. What doing, Joe? Joe? Joooooooooooe.”
Later, she had an absolute blast throwing around a ball with him (and the various adults). After they left, when it was time for night-night, she jabbered at me for a while. “Joe. Joe catch da ball. Joe fwow da ball.”
She finished with “I wike Joe.”
I took Sage trick-or-treating for a very short time — just our block and the next one, and most of the houses were not participating. A huge crowd was showing up to our house just as we got home. I hustled inside and grabbed our bowl of candy and took her back out with me. She took over handing out the candy.
A couple of the costumes must have been scary, because her eyes widened, she frowned, and her lip quivered… but she picked up candy, held it out, and dropped it into their bags, saying, “Hee you go.”
She smiled when they said “Thank you,” and now every time someone comes to the door, she’s sprinting to it yelling “I do it! I do it! I do it!”
Sage (before kid is even up to the door): HEE YOU GO! HEE YOU GO!
Kid: Trick or treat! Trick or treat!
Sage: Ticka Tree!
Kid: That’s right! Here’s some candy! (gives her one from his bowl)
Sage: Thank you!
You have also started to get into the phase people call The Terrible Two’s. Most of the time you’re sweetness and light and fun and charm, but sometimes you decide to whine at the top of your lungs. You’ve had some timeouts for trying to kick the dog when she gets to close to your blanket. (“MY bwanket! MY BWANKET!” — hate to break it to you, kid, but it’s Daddy’s blanket, he’s just letting you use it.)
Some mornings, you wake up before us, and we can hear you calling through the baby monitor: “Mama? Daddy? Whay-uh aaahhhh you?”
Other mornings, we have to wake you up, and you prove again that you’re my kid — you get really annoyed by being awakened.
You’re obsessed with books, which is pretty awesome. You know the key words on every page of your favorite books, and you “read” them to us. You insist on taking at least one book to bed with you. We can hear you reading yourself to sleep most nights.
You love watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Periodically, they’ll ask questions, and you usually try to answer. Sometimes you’re right, sometimes you’re wrong, but sometimes you don’t even wait for the question. You’ve seen the episode before, and you remember.
I’ve watched your understanding of your own toys develop. You have this toy that’s a carton of eggs, each with different faces. The shells come off to reveal six different-colored baby chicks with faces that match the shells’ faces. The chicks come out of the carton, and they can only go back in the specific spots they came from because of shapes in the carton and on the bottoms of the eggs. When you first got the toy, the only thing you wanted to do was take the shells off the chicks, pull the chicks out of the carton, and squeeze them so they would “peep.” Later, you enjoyed taking the shells off and putting them back on. Later, you enjoyed pulling out all the pieces and putting them back, but you needed help to get the chicks back in. Now, you look at the bottom of the chick’s shell to find the shape. You name it out loud, although the plus/cross one you can’t yet remember. (“Skare. Cuhcle. Hawt. Stah. Twianguh. …Dis one.”) You have not yet reached the point where you try to match the faces, and I can’t help but wonder when you’ll start doing that.
You love putting together puzzles. We have some that are really, really easy — three large pieces that go into spaces shaped like them with matching pictures in the holes. We have some that are harder — they still fit into matching shapes, but there are ten of them with no pictures. You like the harder ones better, and you remember exactly where the pieces go, even when I’m sitting there trying to figure it out based on the outline.
You love taking baths. You’re not really big on trying new foods. You like wearing hats. You don’t like having your hands and face washed after eating. You would eat your weight in tomatoes if we let you.
You give great hugs. Sometimes you give them at extremely high speed after screaming “SNUGGLE!” Despite the fact that you’re not even 30 pounds, you’ve managed to knock me over from a squat or kneeling position with these sudden snuggle attacks. I’m totally fine with that.
There is not a day that goes by that your mother and I don’t look at each other with an expression that means, “Did you know she could do that?”
To change directions slightly… this week, I learned that the house I grew up in from 1979 to 1987 was demolished. I have a lot of memories from that house, and I had always thought that one day I’d take you to the neighborhood and show you the house where I grew up, and tell you some stories about it. Now it’s gone.
This next week is Thanksgiving. We’re having it with your mother’s side of the family, but even if we were having it with my side, I’ve discovered that Thanksgiving isn’t ever again going to be the way I remember it from my childhood. The parts of it that were important to me either weren’t important to others (and so the “traditions” I think about weren’t really traditions so much as they were habits), or they can’t be recreated anymore (I’m not sure anyone knows how to make your Great Grandma Pearl’s macaroni salad — either one — and she’s been gone for over a decade now).
The point is, things change. Things change all the time, and there will be things that you won’t realize you miss until they’re gone.
I know that sounds really sad, and sometimes it will feel that way.
But it’s even more encouragement to let the past be the past, and to enjoy today. And I do. I enjoy every day I get to spend watching you grow up. You’re just a phenomenal little girl, and you’re ALMOST TWO.
So, apart from my constant encouragement to be who you are… that’s my advice this month. Enjoy today. Right now. Today. Whatever day you are reading this — enjoy today. It’s kind of cheesy to tell you to count your blessings, but there’s a lot of validity to the idea. Think about what in your life makes you happy. Not the things, but the experiences. The people. And not just temporarily happy. If eating a cupcake makes you happy, sure, that’s great… but think about what things make you happy enough that you want to tell someone about it. Look for that. Enjoy today, and don’t stress so much about the past.
I love you so much, Sage. Your mother and I both do. It’s so hard to believe that the next time I write you these letters, it will be because you’re two years old. For now, I’ll just try to refrain from waking you up for my own sneak attack SNUGGLE!