About Being Two
If you followed our posts for the first year and a half of MDB’s life, you’re probably aware that we’ve been on a *short* hiatus while we let a few things shake out in our lives. Katie started a new job in a new school district, and I’ve been trying to find a new rhythm for getting my book written along with exploring other writing outlets.
But, we’d like to try and ease back into sharing some. Seems fitting to do that with a tribute post to my two year old on this here second anniversary of the blog. I want to talk about all the things that I’d like for him to remember, all the things that I know are building themselves into his being but about which he will likely have zero recollection, all the things that I might also forget if I don’t write them down. Maybe you’ll do the same?
My sweet B,
Some of my earliest memories of my own childhood seem to start around age 4 or 5. I suspect yours will as well. But what I want you to know is that we’ve had a lot of greatness in the time leading up to when your memories will begin.
I wish you would remember how you throw our white and gold pillow down on the living room carpet and march around it when Jake and his pirate pals march around their treasure singing songs.
I wish you remember your deep, deep love for stuffed animals and how I catch you kissing them and feeding them when you think no one is watching.
How you started a one-man band at the Children’s Center where your teacher says she finds you singing your heart out on the toy guitar in the corner.
And the jingle that you and your daddy made up for diaper changing time? You know, the rendition of Miley’s classic where your daddy sings “put your hands up” and you respond with “you wiping my butt”? I would actually like you to forget that for a few years but then pick it back up later when I can’t be called by disgruntled teachers.
Your nighttime prayers and how you mumble along with the words that you can’t know we’re going to say next.
Our bedtime group-hugs and how you play in the water of your night light (which you still don’t realize is an oil diffuser)–how you pull your pants legs up and let your knees get wet while we note how very odd this ritual is for all of us to prioritize.
That thing where you put your pointer finger to your cheek and smile like a ham while saying, “I so cute!”
Sword-fighting with fly swatters, slide-climbing at Columbia Park, “rabbit hunting” in the side-by-side out in Leton.
Your great grandparents. I would love for you to remember your great grandparents.
Our happy bellies dates during the week and how you insist on having your window rolled down when we order.
Saturday mornings with their no pants and bacon and the going in and out of cartoons and ted talks and water coloring.
Our family bike-riding which has become so special so quickly.
McKenzie, your first significant school friend. How you point at the hugging sheep in your “Hugless Douglas” book and announce that it is you and her.
Soccer Shots on Tuesdays and all the excitement that leads up to it.
The book “In My Heart” and how we all make poot noises right as we’re reading the end of the page that talks about feeling silly.
I would say that I’m fine with you not remember the wasp nest that made your leg balloon out, or the big kids at the jazz fest that knocked you down, or the week that McKenzie left for another daycare, or the drop-offs at school that end so often in tears, or how many days and ways that I have not known or chosen what might be best for the building up of you.
But, I wouldn’t mind you remembering how brave and gentle and resilient you decided to be in those moments. My boy–ever hanging back and absorbing until you’re ready to dive in and then never wanting to leave once you do. Two year old Bridger: inquisitive, persistent, goofy, empathetic in ways that are guiding my understanding of more people.
I wish you’d remember how it feels to be the perfect height for holding my hand as we walk up our front steps. Bath time with plastic bowls. Swimming and snuggling and releasing lady bugs. I assume you’ll never remember early childhood as I remember early motherhood–as the thing that brought me into the world of mercy and tenderness.
So, I suppose I’ll have to remember it for the both of us. And maybe we’ll read this together one day. And I’ll probably tear up, and you’ll probably groan “mommmm,” and I’ll think about how you may never know how much of my world became about yours during these first love-filled, deal-sealed years of your existence.
Really special years.