Tomorrow you turn three. And you act like it.
I call you my tumor because I cannot go anywhere without you, not the bathroom, not to my bedroom to change, not even to do laundry. I used to lock doors behind me until you figured out how to open them using a coin. Sometimes I still lock them, but it is only to slow you down at this point.
You seem to think that you have a monopoly on me. You will often insist that I talk to no one but you, and if I defy your orders, you will just talk louder and grab my face and point it directly at you. I had to take you to my physical last week and you talked incessantly until I finally asked my doctor to please ignore you. I reminded you that you promised to be quiet and then you continued to talk in a whisper-ish yell.
You are pretty much completely untrustworthy. You will say, “I not do it, mama.” And then you do it. I am typing on a keyboard that is missing half the keys because I, foolishly, believed you when you promised not to rip the keys off.
Sometimes you act like a teenager. The other day, you woke up from your nap and broke into the bathroom, sat on the stool and said, “Hi mama.” I said, “Hi Colin.” Then you crossed your arms and looked away and growled, “Don’t talk to me, mama.” I am not sure how I misread the signs that you wanted to talk to me when, clearly, you did not.
You are funny! The other day, you put on Brady’s backpack and said, “Look, Mom, I’m Brady…I’m bored!” I think that is pretty impressive humor for a two-year-old! We are on the same wavelength. You told me that you like when I say, “Excuse me, sir, I have your pants,” (in my best British accent) when I am helping you get dressed in the morning.
Your hair, though shorter, is still pretty crazy, and that makes me happy. As you get older, I do not know what we are going to do with it, but I think you will be able to pull it off.
I love snuggling you when you let me, but every day you are getting bigger and more independent. But no matter how big you get, you will always be my baby.