When your baby turns TWO. TWO.
I can’t believe it’s been a year since I pressed “publish” on this post.
That’s right, my Hungry Caterpillar is two today, He’s not that fussed at all about it being his birthday, he’s a little baffled by the additional attention and singing, and whilst he was pleased to get some presents, he is the only child I know who needs to take a brief dry cereal pitstop mid opening.
As with every one of my boys birthdays, I can’t help but sit back and think about how much has changed over the last year. You forget, at this age, how much changes. Looking back (and crying) at the video on last year’s post Fatty couldn’t even walk, he could only just crawl. He was still very much fitting into the big chunky baby arena. Now he fits into anything but. So much has changed, he’s grown up so much.
He can now walk, he can run, he can cause trouble, he can make his opinions heard (too often), he tantrums, his hair has gone from an Alexi Sale-esque combover to big beautiful curls. He laughs, he has a sense of humour, he’s naughty, he can take off and put on his own coat, he will climb into his own push chair and highchair and bed (all of which he does frequently), he can turn into a plank whenever he doesn’t want to do something, he is now counted as a fully paid seat on an aeroplane, he has used the toilet numerous times, he plays ON HIS OWN, he has separation anxiety, he has no fear. He’s entered the terrible twos with full force. He knows what he likes, and what he doesn’t.
It’s been great. BUT I have to say, I found it harder then the first year of his life. After all, he can now run in the opposite direction to his brother, he has an opinon on everything, but he’s frustrated because he can’t always voice it as eloquently as he would like.
I appreciate it can only get easier, but before it does we have so many obstacles to overcome. Ones that I’d tried to forget, for example, potty training. We’ve tried a few times, but I chickened out. That feeling of finding a child with wet pants but not finding the puddle until you stand in it later when you’re reaching to rescue a rouge sock from the coffee table next to the sofa is not something I feel particularly ready for, no matter how bad that sounds. There is also the abandonment of the pushchair. This is not something I’m particularly looking forward to where will I put all my shopping? Plus. Of course, it means I will have to find the strength to carry both children – one under each arm – kicking and screaming from wherever they don’t want to leave.
These are just two, don’t get me started on even bigger scale fights then I’m already witnessing, getting rid of the dummy I intended to get rid of when he was 1 year old (I’m too scared), answering back, more rebellion, more visits to A&E. The list is endless.
But oh my god,
as long as I continue to carry a hip flask with me wherever I go, it’s going to be an amazing year. He’ll get Christmas this year, we’ll have fun on holidays, we’ll no longer have to buy nappies, we’ll get free hours at nursery. We’ll have little conversations about nothing and everything. He’ll develop his own language. I’m wondering if he’ll say “rectus” instead of breakfast like The Beast did.
We also have to address the weight thing. As he’s now a “big boy” and not a baby anymore
and the fact that when Theo reffered to him at school as “my fat baby brother” I feel it’s only right to stop referring to the fact that he’s always carrying a “little holiday weight”. Plus, he’s a little monkey right now, so from now on, I have “The Beast” and “The Monster” (and probably my chunky monkey).
Happy Birthday Larry xxx
Here’s to next year
and convincing daddy you need a little sister. x