Twenty-nine (29!) Months with Alvie Bean
Dear Bean,
You are now 29 months old! Whoa! It’s been another fabulous month full of fabulosity.
We’ve had so much fun! There were parks! And water! And camping! You’ve been hilarious and weird and creepy. In other words, nearly two and a half.
You love going to the park. And going for bike rides. And playing outside. And making giant messes. And making noise. I read once that little boys are noises with dirt on them, and that is the most accurate description for you right now. We’ve had to take you out of restaurants to get the screams out of you because there are just SO! MANY! NOISES! in there.
“Mummy, I cwazy!” You tell me several times a day.
Yeah, Bean. You are.
Everything is yours. “Dat’s mine,” you say. About your books, your toys, my iPad, my car keys, the battery to the cordless drill, the random stray piece of fluff you’ve found on the ground.
“‘yander do it, no hep,” is another.
Don’t touch ‘yander!
You are becoming a pickier and pickier eater, which is great, what with your food allergies. I am thisclose to giving up completely and letting you subsist on a diet of chicken sausages, cheese sandwiches, and pizza (gluten-free, of course). I don’t know how you can find a spinach leaf that’s been finely chopped and hidden under a mound of melted mozzarella on your pizza, but you have a gift. Fortunately, you do like smoothies, so spinach does get into your belly on the regular. Back in the olde days, I swore I’d never hide vegetables from you, because you’d willingly eat everything we put in front of you. Now, I just can’t figure out what exactly is wrong with cheese-drenched cauliflower, and am googling new ways to hide carrots in food. I keep offering non pureed vegetables at every meal. I know that eventually, you’ll eat a delicious, buttery grilled zucchini stick.
You have amused me greatly with your imagination this month. You love to tell stories. You often go on excursions (usually to the grocery store for cheese sandwiches, because I am obviously not serving those up quite often enough, what with my focus on tomatoes [FRESH FROM THE GARDEN, YOU CRETINOUS INGRATE!]), call people silly names (like banana), and tell fantastical tales about spiders and ducks. However, sometimes your stories are less good. It’s hard to learn the difference about when it’s okay to use your imagination and when it’s not, isn’t it? It’s okay to tell someone you’re a cat and they’re a banana. It’s not okay to say that your friend at school pushed you when he didn’t. Life lessons, kid. Life lessons.
We hung glow-in-the-dark stars and planets in your room this month. It’s pretty awesome. You did most of them, which means that 99% of the stars are in one little clump above the head of the bed. You sang several rousing renditions of “Twinkle Twinkle” while sticking the stars up, which was awesome.
Every night when we go to bed, you recite all the planets that you can remember. Every few days, another planet gets added to your repertoire. I am so proud, Junior Astronomer. So proud. I don’t even feel a tiny bit ashamed that your solar system came with Pluto and that we hung it up and I haven’t made any editorial notes about it yet. (I also don’t feel ashamed that your Daddy and I giggle every time we talk about Uranus, even though the instructions clearly gave a pronunciation guide for that planet that would’ve eliminated all sophomoric jokes.)
It’s been hot, so we’ve indulged in the sprinkler a couple of times. You love it and would gladly run through it until you’re blue and shivering. I would gladly put it away until next summer in favor of cool, rainy weather. I bought you some new rain boots and would much rather see some puddle stomping in the near future.
You talk all the time. All. the. time. I love it. Most of the time.
You are not interested in really pursuing potty training. I’m not terribly worried. You go when you feel like it. You often inform me when pottying is happening in your pull up. You just don’t have time for that crap. (ha!)
You are a big boy. “I am two,” you say. You just added that verb in there. I was impressed.
You are beginning to get interested in things. Like Cars. You have your very own Lightning McQueen shirt. And Lightning McQueen race car. The other day, you saw a Tow Mater car in the check out line. “Mommy, need Tow Mater. Tow Mater is Lightning McQueen’s friend. Lightning McQueen is race car. Needs friend.”
I was impressed with your logic. I did not buy the car, but I was impressed.
You also love Spiderman. OMG, do you love Spiderman. You want to be Spiderman for Halloween. I was hoping that I would get to pick your costume for one more year, but I was so excited that you had an opinion, that I immediately purchased you a Spiderman costume. You’d better not change your mind!
I love it especially when you say to me, out of the blue, “Mommy, I love you much.”
I love you much, too.
Kisses,
Mommy.
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