Friday, April 3, 2009

The routine that isn't

I challenge you to a duel!, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

You picked out your clothes today; or more to the point you nodded your head in approval as your dad held up various items from which you could choose. Your dad chuckled that the multi-colored pants you selected had the face of Winnie the Pooh stitched to the bum.

He finds that kind of thing funny.

I find nothing strange in such a choice, however, especially now that your displeasure in getting dressed at all is backed by a growth spurt that has given your wiggle more weight. Everyone can use a soft landing now that the Terrible Twos have begun their approach, what better way than with a bear who's stuffed with fluff?

Looking at you now, I find it hard to remember the six-pound baby we brought home nearly two years ago.

Back then you looked so frail, so vulnerable.

Right now you are a tough cookie with a penchant for repeating the last word of anything anyone says aloud.

"Do you want some snack?"


"Where are your trucks?"


"Where is your Dappa John?"


Well ... most of the time:

"I think you need a diaper change .."


And your "terrible twos" are evident:

So far this month,

* My new video camera met its demise at the bottom of the dog's water bowl.

* Some haberdashery belonging to your sister’s Polly Pocket dolls mysteriously found its way into our septic system … or so we believe.

* Stray rocks have begun collecting in the end pipes of the gutters.

* Most of the food you are give gets thoroughly masticated and then returned to the plate (or deposited in random locations throughout the house).

* You’ve begun sounding a little like the seagulls in the movie “Finding Nemo” … Mine! Mine! Mine!

* And "NO!" … is beginning to mean NO!

Things are really quite different this time around, though. The terrible twos for the second child, in our case, will probably be magnified by the fact that our routine isn't what anyone would consider routine.

Breakfast for you typically means sitting on your father's lap and eating every other spoonful.

Dinner often gets left on the plate or fed to the dog.

Bedtime usually consists of you dragging your dad into our bedroom yelling "BOND! BOND!" Because you have gotten into the habit of hanging out with your dad as he watches Double-O-Seven renew his License to Kill while I read bedtime stories to your sister.

I keep thinking when you have normal a room, you'll have a normal routine. (If normal is even possible in our house as long as we reside there).

We'll get there, somehow.

I'm not worried. Much.




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