Earlier this week, Bernard turned two. I didn’t forget to write about it, I just had other things to do. It’s been manic of late, and then we had the whole birthday weekend going on, with grandfathers and presents and train sets, which was all very exciting for everyone. Finally I have a moment to tell you how it feels to be the mother of a two year old.
Exhausting. In a good way. Honest. If Bernard is awake, then he is moving. The only time he stays still is when he’s absorbed in his train set; and even then, he prefers to have a parent there “helping” him to play. If we dare to sit on the sofa for a moment, or open the laptop, or start to make dinner, a little voice is heard demanding help play? help play train set? with accompanying head-tilted furiously appealing eye contact.
Sometimes he will sit with us and read a book, but only at his pace. If he thinks we’re reading too slowly, he just turns the pages faster. If he wants to go back and count the cows again, he does so. We haven’t the energy or the inclination to insist on conventional one page at a time book reading. He surprised me at the weekend by naming almost all the letters in his alphabet dinosaur jigsaw. This isn’t something we have taught him, but we do name the letters when we do the puzzle with him. He confuses letters with similar sounds, such as X, F and S; but he can identify them out of context.
Yesterday I was getting dressed under his supervision. He looked up and remarked Milk! One, two. Two milk. Hayo milk! then wandered off and let me put my top on in peace.