Twenty Eight
I'm posting another incomplete entry. Once it's banished to draft status I apparently lose all bloggy motivation. Enjoy!
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Yesterday, Patrick turned 28 months old. I have never been good with the months vs. years things when it comes to baby/toddler ages. When people ask me how old he is, I usually say, "He turned 2 in December." (Before that, it was "He'll be 2 in December," etc.) It's just that I know the other mothers are judging. He's bigger than my child. He's smaller than my child. He says more than my child. My child is cuter, thank goodness. (Yes, we all think that.) So I want him to get credit where it's due. If he's 2 + 1 month, that's a lot younger than 2 + 11 months. Obviously I overanalyze positively everything. Anyway, he's 2 but I already did a "Two" update so ... twenty eight months.
Patrick talks a lot. Mostly, I can understand him. Often, other people can understand him. Sometimes you still need context. One of my favorite things that he says is 'pacuter' for computer. He has his little toy one, James has the iPad, and I usually have my laptop on the couch. He will point to each one. "My pacuter. Mommy pacuter. Daddy pacuter." It's cute. He really likes his squirt bottle, which we got him to keep him from playing with the Windex. James told him it was chemicals and he wasn't allowed to play with it (they're in the cabinet above the stove, so he can't reach), so now he stands there pointing upwards and asking for 'chem-kalls.' He is somewhat placated by his very own squirt bottle filled with water but he knows it's a poor substitute and sometimes he makes his feelings on this subject quite clear. The vacuum cleaner is still a source of fascination. He's moved up to the early preschool class at daycare, and that door is across the hall from the employee/storage room. One day this week, when I went to pick him up, he pointed at the door and said, "Get vacuum cleaner. Key up there." (The key is on a hook by the door.) The teacher said, "He is just so smart. He's too smart for his own good." I'm inclined to agree, but I wonder if she says that to all the moms?
Since it's spring, we're outside all the time. Patrick loves getting dirty and loathes coming inside. Tantrums. He adores lawn mowers. He has a push mower but would like a riding mower. We watched a guy down the street mow his lawn with a push mower a few weeks back. Patrick was fascinated with the procedure to start it. He now starts things up randomly by pulling the (nonexistent) starter cord. I am supremely amused by this. The kid across the street brought out a mini John Deere last night, and Patrick was in heaven, despite the fact that the thing was missing one of its front wheels. Patrick has seen this very tractor at Wal-Mart and requests it every time we go (which is not that often, the kid has too good of a memory). James is probably going to cave in and buy it for him but I'm trying to remain strong because he has SO MANY THINGS THAT GO.
The little boy next door, who's 4, wants Patrick to sleep over, but his mom said Patrick has to be potty trained first, so every day, he asks, "Did you train him yet?" Alas, we have not. Patrick knows what to do, however. He pees standing up, like big boys do. He pees in the shower (learned THAT trick from his father) and pees into his garbage truck and his front loader. I have to give him credit but at the same time, clearly he gets it and he's toying with me. He only rarely will actually go on the potty. I'm not ready to push it yet. I imagine at some point they'll push it more at daycare and he has to be trained before he moves up, but that's almost a year away.
Posted by Molly
at 1:39 PM EDT
Updated: Fri 05/20/2011 9:28 PM EDT
It must be something about this time of year. Spring training, the regular-season-ending Carolina-Dook game. It makes me think about that first year in Houston, the one I thought would never be equaled. 2001. (I was right, although I suppose I would extend it from a year out to about 18 months before it started to go wrong.) That brings us back (always) to WM. He used to say that the best year of my life was the worst year of his. Not because of me. Or maybe it was because of me. Anyway.