Defining Two

It seems only fitting that it would take me three days to get around to writing about my third son’s birthday. That’s the sort of thing that would only happen to a third child. Kind of like how it took me almost two years to get around to having his picture taken professionally. And by professionally, I mean by one of those digital photography places in the mall. As the adage goes, time flies when you’re having fun. I blinked, and he was two.

You’d think that by kid number three, I’d have motherhood all figured out. I’m certainly more relaxed now, but by no means do I have all the answers. Andrew and I learn what works for him together, it’s just that after eight years of practice on his brothers, I figure things out a bit faster. He’s the lucky one for that.

I’ve spent the past three days thinking about him and his personality-- how I could define him, put into words all the nuances that make him, our little Andy-roo, as if this tiny boy with so much personality could be summed up in a few words. I used to marvel at mothers that could describe their children so easily. I often thought that perhaps they knew their kids so much better than I knew mine-- that not being able to find just the right words to label them somehow made me an out-of-touch mother. I finally realized that I don’t want to label them. I don’t want to limit who they can become. I can’t adequately put into words who they are because they, like me, are constantly growing, changing, evolving into a better person. I shape them, and they shape me. Yesterday’s “quiet one” is today’s chatterbox. The shy one today may be tomorrow’s clown, and I just never know when the trouble maker will turn into the obedient one.

So I’ve stopped trying to find the right words. Instead, here is a glimpse of my Andrew, as he is right now, at two years, three days, 14 hours and 37 minutes. 

* * *

Every morning around 7 a.m., I hear Andrew call out to me from his room because he can’t yet open the door. The longer it takes me to reach his door, the more demanding his calls become. I open the door, and there he is, standing just inside the room, binky in mouth, expectantly waiting for me to release him into the house. He raises his arms to me, and I lift him into a bear hug, which he tolerates for a few seconds before wiggling his way out of my arms to find his much more interesting older brothers.

He rushes down the slick wooden stairs, still taking them one at a time, but with complete disregard for the handrail, and enters the kitchen with purpose. He has a way of walking that is more like marching, as he practically bounces with each determined step. He climbs up on a bar stool and takes his place beside his brothers at the bar, pointing at their bowls of cereal. His words are jumbled but his intentions are clear. “I’ll have what they’re having. And make it quick. I don’t have all day,” his monosyllabic sentences ring out. He eats his cereal with all the finesse he can manage, often dumping the bowl into his lap, until his brothers are done. When they are done, he is done. He will not be left behind. 

When his brothers leave for school, Andrew devotes himself to quiet play and mischievous exploration. He is never far from my side. If I’m doing laundry, he’s moving the clean clothes back to the dirty pile. If I’m putting on my makeup, he’s losing my brushes. If I’m blow drying my hair, he’s putting Q-tips inside hard to reach places. If I’m doing dishes, he’s standing inside the dishwasher, licking the clean spoons. If I’m sitting at the computer, he’s sitting in my lap pushing all the buttons on the keyboard or he’s unloading a nearby cabinet while I’m distracted. He is my sidekick, and he keeps me forever watchful.

He likes to read books, but only certain books. We’ve read Sandra Boynton’s Oh My Oh My Oh Dinosaurs so many times I’ve memorized it, and every time we get to the end, he waves goodbye to the dinosaurs, closes the book, turns it over and insists that I read it again. When I try to suggest a new book, he lets me read approximately two pages before he closes the book on my hands and reaches for an old favorite. I often catch him sitting alone, staring at the pictures in his favorite books.

His favorite show is Plaza Sesamo, the Spanish version of Sesame Street, which I can only assume is because all the characters sound like Elmo. I don’t know if he understands it, but he will sit and watch an entire 30 minute episode, transfixed on the puppets dancing before his eyes.

When he wants a snack, Andrew brings me avocados or boiled eggs from the refrigerator. He loves apples and grapes and needs to dip his crackers in hummus. He’s even been known to tote a gallon of juice up the stairs to let me know that he is thirsty. 

Andrew is strong, independent and smart. 

He loves to be chased. He starts giggling before I can finish saying “I’m gonna get you.” He shrugs his shoulders to protect his neck and runs away in anticipation. He stops to make sure I’m still chasing him before running again. He is so very ticklish.

His laughter is contagious. When he laughs, I laugh. He can go from laughing to crying to laughing again in 30 seconds flat. Mercifully, his crying is not contagious.

His booboos are mended with magical mommy kisses, and his cries are quieted with a hug. 

Sometimes he lavishes me with sweet kisses of his own, watching my face for a reaction with each kiss he plants on my lips. Other times, he is stingy with his affection, shaking his head at me in defiance when I ask for a kiss. This turns into a game for him. I beg; he denies me and giggles. I savor the moments of bountiful kisses, wondering how long it will be until the next time he feels amorous. 

When his daddy gets home, Andrew greets him with cheers and hugs. Chris’s fan club of toddler and puppy rush to meet him at the first sounds of his car pulling into the driveway. They attack his legs with hugs and wags until he scoops them both into his arms. 

At story time at the library, Andrew clings to me, as if he’s fearful that I’ll suddenly disappear and leave him alone with the dozens of toddlers and the odd hosting couple. Adults acting silly scare him. Heck, a guy dressed up like a bumble bee strumming a guitar kind of scares me too. Andrew never participates in the songs, but he watches and listens. Every so often, he’ll stare out the window, point and say “park” longingly.

On his birthday it rained, and his party at the park was postponed for another weekend. We took him to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate instead, but he felt overwhelmed by the crowd. When I asked him if he was having a good birthday, he said, “Park,” wistfully. I felt exactly the same way. Have you ever been to Chuck E. Cheese on a rainy Sunday afternoon? It’s a nightmare. We bought him a balloon filled with helium and took him home. He was happy.

* * *

I just used 940 words to attempt to describe a boy who can barely put words together himself. 940 words, and it’s still inadequate. Can you imagine the looks I would get at the park if I dumped all 940 of them on another mother? She would say, “Jillian is my story teller," or "Linus is always such a clown!” Then I would launch into my 940 word soliloquy? No, that would never do.  Instead, I’ll simply say, “Andrew’s a pretty typical two-year-old, but he’s mine, and I love him.”