At the grand old age of twenty one months (I can’t bring myself to say, ‘nearly two’), my baby boy is growing up too quickly and I do not like it, not one little bit (to quote the fish in ‘The Cat in the Hat’.)
He’s had a growth spurt and apart from being perfect ‘table corner height’, which means that he’s prime fodder for a concussion when he’s running up and down, he can now grab stuff off the boards in the kitchen and open the fridge (I wouldn’t mind if he could pour my wine too, but his hand/eye coordination isn’t quite there yet).
He can sit at the ‘big boy table’ for snacks and meals, although we’re still strapping him down in his high chair at home because otherwise he just feeds all his tea to the dog, belly laughing whilst he does it, or legs it up and down, mouth full of food, giggling, with the puppy chasing him and barking.
He says ‘pooh’ and holds his nose when he’s done a dirty nappy and then brings me a clean one with a pack of wipes and a nappy sack and he’s got a potty which he likes to sit on (although he still prefers to stand and hold onto the furniture whilst he has a wee; he may as well look over his shoulder, whistle, wink and say ‘alright, luv?’ at the same time.)
He’s starting to string words together; on the one hand I’m pleased that he’s reached this stage in his development, but I’m also worried about what combinations his brothers are going to teach him to say in public. He already says ‘boobies’, ‘big boy’ and ‘wiggle, wiggle’ (from LMFAO); I dread to think…
He says ‘no’ and shakes his head when I ask him for a kiss (I’m used to this rejection from men but my own children?…).
Finally, he’s not only moved into ‘year’ clothes instead of ‘month’ clothes, HE’S STOPPED HAVING A DAYTIME NAP! (Although, to be fair, I’m only mourning this last one because it puts a kibosh on my hour and half of peace and quiet in the afternoons) 🙂