You spent your second birthday sick. Pitifully so. At one point you even curled up in my lap, turned your back to the TV and fell asleep. You never do that. Not any of those things. As nice as it was to have the cuddle, it somehow seemed wrong, a stolen moment at your expense. I was relieved when you perked up, not 10 minutes later, and tried to grab the remote. It showed you still had some spunk, some flicker of yourself -- the Sam that always, always, despite our pleas, tries to play with the remote, punches every button on the washer/dryer, picks on the dog, and steals Daddy's glasses. It's your schtick. Everybody needs one.
To start your third year sick was not completely inappropriate. As a toddler in daycare, you spent your second year sniffly, but nothing too serious, and for that I am grateful. I fretted over every fever, every messy diaper, every skipped meal. You started chewable vitamins this year -- my one attempt to control the uncontrollable. We call them "candy," and although we tell you everyday that you only get one, you always, always ask for more. It's your schtick.
You are not a great eater. You seem to prefer pizza over most other foods, but I don't think we've ever successfully fed you leftover pizza. You don't seem to like meat, or vegetables. I've never seen you eat a bite of macaroni & cheese. But you do love fruit, cereal, yogurt, and cheese. And french fries (after all, you are my child). You went through a (glorious!) broccoli phase, but that has passed. Peas were a hit there for a while, when coated in parmesan cheese (the old-school powdered kind). I've really given up on trying to feed you creatively or encouraging you to eat what Mommy and Daddy are eating. I'm going to work on that this year, OK? So you do your part and don't drive Mommy to drink more than one glass of wine with dinner, OK?
I read (skimmed, really) an article that discussed how you can tell if your child is really happy. I can't imagine that being a concern. You know how I know you're happy? You are constantly singing. You really only have two or three tunes (the alphabet song and Frere Jacques come to mind), and you always get the words wrong, but you've got a song to sing. May that always be the case, my dear.
You're a pretty good talker. I don't really know how you compare to other kids your age, but you seem to have developed a decent vocabulary, and you are constantly chatting about whatever it is that's on your mind. Granted, there's not a lot of deep thinking going on -- you most often seem to be talking about Elmo or the dog. Or buses, or bubbles. Or our new neighbor across the street, Nick, whom you stalk daily. My favorite word of yours is bulldozers. When you say milk, it's nearly always incomprehensible, but you pronounce bulldozers perfectly. And frequently.
We moved over the summer, and you mostly took it in stride. But you showed your vulnerability, too. The transition to the new daycare was not as smooth as I would have hoped. I think people are important to you, and you missed your old people. Since we moved, I have not even uttered the name "Pete" in your company, for fear one of us might break down in tears. You have also become a little more attached to Mommy, sometimes at the expense of Daddy, and I think it hurts his feelings. He'd never tell you that, of course. He just comes up with new ways to get you all riled up, like wrestling with you, chasing you, getting Elmo to ride the dog like a horse.
Soon enough you'll be daddy's boy, playing catch in the backyard. While Elmo and I sit together, watching you from the window, wondering where the time went.
