Now you are Two. July 5, 2007
Congratulations Amy! You have reached the grand old age of two without losing any limbs or major organs. You are funny and cheeky, serious and focused, tall and active, cuddly and smoochy. Unfortunately, at the moment you’re also snotty, but that can’t be helped. Somehow we have convinced you that napping at 24 months of age is a great idea, and you have maintained a pattern of near-daily naps that I really hope will go on for much longer.
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Amy’s talking continues to develop at a rate of knots. On Monday I put bread out for the birds and Amy shouted at the birds through the window, “Eat bread please birdies!” It was her first four-word sentence and I almost phoned Mike at work to tell him. She is stringing together syllables in chains with a distinct pause between each, like each sound takes such emphasis that she needs to build her strength to enunciate it just so. “Nappy bucket” comes out as “Nah-bee-Buh-het”. Sometimes I wonder if she is hearing everything properly, then I remember, oh yeah, she’s two. Just.
She runs; she jumps. She likes to hop on the spot, stiff-legged. She ran onto the frosty deck yesterday and lost her feet, landing on her backside, then refused to take another step. She manoeuvres her way down steps without holding on to anything, while I hover nearby wishing she wouldn’t push my hand away. She’s independent, at least for the first attempt at anything. She has to try it by herself; if she fails, she calls for help.
When Mike gets home from work, every day, no matter what, she’s ecstatic. He is almost always greeted at the door by running footsteps, two excited kids with huge grins calling “Daddy!” Sometimes I tell them to hide and Ethan runs into his room while Amy covers her face with her hands, the corners of her smile poking out around her fingers.
She asks us now to use the toilet. She sits on the potty for what seems (to me) like hours on end, with no result. She loves to feel like she’s as big and clever as Ethan. She imitates his games, his words, his movements, his moods. She runs to tell me, “Ethan’s sad,” or touches his shoulder to say “Sorry, Ethan” if she hurts him. They are affectionate together, they read each other stories or dress up as Supermen. They race cars, ride bikes, play hiding games. Amy wants to sleep in Ethan’s bottom bunk and every night we have to head her off at the pass and divert her to her own room. If we’re too slow we find her, giggling, pretending to be asleep under the covers in Ethan’s room.
When she’s tired or shy or sad or hurt or confused, she sucks on two fingers. She likes it when the two of us curl up on the couch and I pretend to be asleep. She pats my back, strokes my hair, then gets bored with that and starts pointing to me: nose, eyes, glasses, ears, cheek, chin, hair. I nibble her fingers, blow raspberries on her neck, squeeze her thighs, tickle her feet, and she turns into a little hedgehog baby curled into a ball, giggling so much she can’t breathe. I love how her nose wrinkles when she laughs, and now she’s getting a dimple, like Ethan’s, above one corner of her mouth. I just noticed that today.
