Three (For Real This Time)

You turned three… about two months ago.  Whoops.  I’m a little late on this, but better late than never.

To be honest, I am having trouble verbalizing (typing?) this thing, which is part of the reason I’ve been putting this off.  Those shmoopy, reflective remembrances are cute for babies, but kinda obnoxious as you get older, I know.  Also you are well past the age of marking developmental milestones, so I don’t see including that sort of thing.  Does anyone care that you can eat popcorn without choking now?  No.  So anyway, in the past 3 months whenever I’ve had the time to sit down and actually type this out, I find myself not knowing what to say, staring at a blank screen, then heading out to check Facebook and get sucked into an hour of re-pinning nail polishes on Pinterest. Sad but true. However I have decided: tonight is the night, I am sitting down and I’m typing this out and nothing will stop me.

I guess let’s start by just acknowledging that you were, in fact, at one point: two years old.  You know, That Age.  The one everyone complains about.  The one everybody always warns you about, but then when you are in the thick of it they turn around and tell you, “oh yeah, HAHA, actually: just wait for age three…”.  And yes, it’s true, it’s not exactly a cake walk.  Two year olds are opinionated, extremely stubborn, and prone to meltdowns.  You were no different.  You complained, you had temper tantrums.  You would be happy and cheerful, then turn on a dime and be in this insufferable bad mood and knew exactly what buttons to push to send your poor dad and I past our all-time levels of patience.  And yet.


I have always said that two is my favorite age, I tell everyone that, and I do, indeed, essentially snatch up all of my friends’/family’s two-year-olds whenever they are within arm’s reach.  And my child, he was no different at age two.  While we did have our fair share of the meltdowns and attitude, we also got that awesome stuff that comes along with it.  Peter the Beez: at two years old, you adored bananas and mustard like there were no other foods on the planet (and yeah, sometimes you enjoyed them together).  You insisted on having imaginary choo-choo races in the aisle at Target. You were the reason we could never find a Chapstick this year, because you squirreled them all away and secretly smashed them all over your face when you knew we weren’t looking.  Before every trip/car ride/activity, hell – every single morning – you looked up expectantly and started every conversation with a booming, cheerleader-esque: “ARE YOU READY, GUYS?”.

You danced like a Peanuts character.  You took over my kitchen when I was cooking, always running back and forth from me and the recipe, matter-of-factly telling me that the soup “NEEDS A HOT DOG” or “IT SAYS SOME BAZGHETTI I’LL GO GET IT”.

You always sing a little song to yourself when doing things, something so disarmingly charming that random strangers frequently stop to comment on it.  You loved your kitties so dearly, and took them with you absolutely everywhere, insisting they were your babies.

You always chirped out a polite “wish you!” when I sneezed, and got that serious concentration face when you give those hard neck-squeezy hugs, and insisted on kissing me on the lips even though you totally knew it grosses me out.

I think my favorite is the way you mispronounced about half of the English language, calling the Weinermobile the Big Weiner Van, insisting in a husky voice that you were “ICE BADER” when you ran after me with that lightsaber in Walgreens, constantly defending your love for the treat known as “mash-mesh-oes”.

Dear lord, but you know how much your father hates those mash-mesh-oes.

In short – Peter, whenever you went to bed at night, no matter if you went nicely and passed right out (PARENT WIN, we hit that magic number where we wore you out enough) or if you went to bed kicking and screaming, refusing to go gentle into that good night – without fail, every single night, after finally getting you to quiet down and go to bed, your father and I would stop and look at each other, and one of us would repeat some phrase you spit out that day; then we’d crack up.

Because yes, even with all its pains: the Twos, they are just that awesome.

PS – I think my favorite is when you take me aside, coax me sweetly into sitting on the couch in front of you, pat me on the hand, and tell me “I am the dad, and you be the honey.  So sit down, honey.” And proceed to  lovingly whip up some avocado and onion soup from your play kitchen.

The Honey



    1. Thor. He’s obsessed with Thor, that was his potty-training prize. He doesn’t take it off for anything. Just wait, girl, K will be in that sort of phase soon enough 🙂

  1. You have such an incredible way with words; I smile with every post. This is such a great way to “scrapbook” the adventures of Doots and he is sure to love this when he is older. Thank you for continuing to share with us! Miss you!

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