Somehow (and without my permission, the little stinker) George turns two years old today. I’ve been saying he is “almost two” since he turned 20 months so I thought I would be okay with just dropping the almost and simply saying “he’s two.” Nope – I’m a weepy-eyed mess, particularly as I’m looking through pictures from this last year trying to figure out what in the world I am going to say in honor of my little man.
George is simply wonderful. He’s opinionated, he’s tender, he’s hot tempered (particularly when he’s sick or tired), he’s passionate, and he is an absolute loveable mess of a boy and I can’t imagine life without him. George had some pretty big shoes to fill following in his sister’s footsteps and he has somehow managed to stand out in this small family of unique personalities.
George is physically huge (and as an aside, I do not intend this to mean that I have somehow succeeded in parenting because I have a large child. That mentality drives me nuts. George is big because Will is 6’5” and I come from a family of large males. Period. Children who are small are just as wonderful, bright and likely to succeed. And those same children may very well tower over my kids in twenty years’ time – you just never know). George was big from the get-go at almost 9 pounds and 22+ inches long. I never will forget one of the delivery nurses telling me “you’re going to have a hard time keeping this one full.” And two years later I can safely say that woman knew exactly what she was talking about. As a baby, George nursed every two hours like clockwork. And these were no 15-minute snack times; these were marathon 45-minute suck me dry sessions. George still eats most meals as though they are his last and I get a bit weary thinking of our future grocery bill when the boy reaches middle school. Frances is tall for her age, but just as recently as Monday afternoon I was asked if I have twins. Gulp.
Understandably, George’s size is a huge disadvantage for me when it comes to picking him up or “gently” physically forcing him to do something he adamantly does not want to—like get in his car seat. Most of the time, he has to think that what you’re asking of him is a good idea or will produce some pleasure (such as the much coveted paci or vanilla wafers; yep, I have become one of “those” mothers). If all else fails and I am forced to pick up his flailing, crying, hitting, biting little body to put him in the car/put him in the stroller/remove him from the playground, he has learned to say “Owwwwww, Mommy, owwwww!!” as though my request is nothing but pure physical torture. Nice. Did I also mention that George is incredibly bright?
But 99.9% of the time, George is a peach and well-mannered; and he has come an incredibly long way in every milestone (most importantly his behavior) since I stopped working. He’s talking in sentences (although his words are not as clear as Frances was at his age. I know, stop comparing them – but it’s hard not to!), he’s mastering games and toys, he’s cautious without being shy, he’s careful with his body but can easily maneuver physical activities after watching someone else do it just once or twice, he’s independent but highly affectionate, and he has such a joy for life (which is really all that matters in the end, right?).
Happy birthday, George! Thank you for letting me watch you grow these last two years and for being my partner in crime these last six months – it has been the greatest pleasure of my life.
And now I am going to blubber into the nearest tissue.
Happy Wednesday everyone!