When you are two,
All things are new,
And the world is full of wonders.
You haven't much grown,
Nor yet have you known
The learning curve of blunders.
It's fun to get dressed,
And Mama knows best
Which boo-boos need what healing.
Life contains kisses
And all kinds of blisses,
And naptime is most appealing.
From stories in books
You learn how life looks,
From the comfort of Mama's embrace.
Your daddy so tall
Is the strongest of all,
And his whiskers tickle your face.
When you are two,
All things are True,
For you have not learned to doubt.
Exploring, you're fearless.
In energy peerless,
All that is what Two is about.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Good Young Days
Here comes The Clomper. That'd be my two-year-old son, in his Pull-up and with a pair of shoes a size-and-a-half too big, on the wrong feet.
Two-year-olds wake up one day to find that they have arrived at the doorstep of a New Phase; they at once embark upon an Era of Trying Everything. Now we have to hide, or render inaccessible, all sorts of things for fear Jonathan will use them (we have learned quickly by experience.) Scissors,Q-tips,the hole-punch, markers, tools, hairbrushes, math textbooks, craft projects, cameras, flashlights, rolls of tape, gluesticks...if he has ever seen you handling it, he wants to try it as soon as you are distracted.
The two-year-old is the closest human relative of the parrot, learning by vocal imitation, so best to be careful of your words, especially of saying what you don't want played back to you in a happy sing-song totally at odds with the content.
Two-year-olds are the world's smallest imperialists: they say "please" and manage to make a command out of it.
We have been programmed to speak of the Twos as "Terrible"...and I can't say I agree with this. I may not be credentialled in the way of the PhD expert types, but I am on my sixth two-year-old. And I have studied my own in real life, rather than someone else's on good behavior for the observation interval. I would instead sum up Two as "bittersweet." Life happens ever more quickly at this stage, now that those little legs are so strong, losing plumpness by the minute, in climbing, running, pedalling, and general busy times. I find myself flying to record somewhere the funny things Jonathan says, before they can change. This morning he attempted to say "chiropractor," and I declare it came out, "chiro-daddy." He said it several times in the context of a family-wide flurry to get to the appointments. When he asks for something to eat or drink, it's always with a "peas?" And when he pops up to be taken out of the crib in the morning, he proclaims, "I no' seeping, Mama!" (sic) This afternoon, I heard him admonish the dog, whose name is Seamus, "You in my way, Same-y!"
At two, a little person has taken his or her place, and begins to make some sort of mark on his small world. In among all the fluctuating from tantrums to cuddliness, from pouting to precious, the Two-year-old teaches us something of inestimable value - namely, the depth of our ability to love unconditionally. Being two is not so terrible as being two no longer; having a two-year-old is not so terrible as having one no longer.
Two-year-olds wake up one day to find that they have arrived at the doorstep of a New Phase; they at once embark upon an Era of Trying Everything. Now we have to hide, or render inaccessible, all sorts of things for fear Jonathan will use them (we have learned quickly by experience.) Scissors,Q-tips,the hole-punch, markers, tools, hairbrushes, math textbooks, craft projects, cameras, flashlights, rolls of tape, gluesticks...if he has ever seen you handling it, he wants to try it as soon as you are distracted.
The two-year-old is the closest human relative of the parrot, learning by vocal imitation, so best to be careful of your words, especially of saying what you don't want played back to you in a happy sing-song totally at odds with the content.
Two-year-olds are the world's smallest imperialists: they say "please" and manage to make a command out of it.
We have been programmed to speak of the Twos as "Terrible"...and I can't say I agree with this. I may not be credentialled in the way of the PhD expert types, but I am on my sixth two-year-old. And I have studied my own in real life, rather than someone else's on good behavior for the observation interval. I would instead sum up Two as "bittersweet." Life happens ever more quickly at this stage, now that those little legs are so strong, losing plumpness by the minute, in climbing, running, pedalling, and general busy times. I find myself flying to record somewhere the funny things Jonathan says, before they can change. This morning he attempted to say "chiropractor," and I declare it came out, "chiro-daddy." He said it several times in the context of a family-wide flurry to get to the appointments. When he asks for something to eat or drink, it's always with a "peas?" And when he pops up to be taken out of the crib in the morning, he proclaims, "I no' seeping, Mama!" (sic) This afternoon, I heard him admonish the dog, whose name is Seamus, "You in my way, Same-y!"
At two, a little person has taken his or her place, and begins to make some sort of mark on his small world. In among all the fluctuating from tantrums to cuddliness, from pouting to precious, the Two-year-old teaches us something of inestimable value - namely, the depth of our ability to love unconditionally. Being two is not so terrible as being two no longer; having a two-year-old is not so terrible as having one no longer.
Monday, May 2, 2011
A Moveable Feast
Jeffrey proposed going for a family walk after evening chores...he needs some aerobic exercise. This had been a bread-baking day, so it was easy to make pb&j and pack it in a bag. It was probably Jeffrey's idea to have the dog along with us, and that's how it ended up being Jeffrey's job to hose him off on our return.
So we set out, to hike up the hills, at twilight through a barely-definable mist.
Jonathan's little hand was nice and warm in mine as we started. He did a wonderful job keeping up, always kept going, little legs pumping harder to make his way through six inches of alfalfa hay. I admired his sturdiness all over again, as he negotiated all the tree roots and stones in the broken-up pasture terrain before the hay meadows. This was a lark to him, there needn't be any point except to be all together. He and I usually brought up the rear of the group, which is not a bad vantage point to have, if one enjoys observing and absorbing.
Hannah forged ahead, pointing out entrances to rabbit holes not yet concealed by light Spring growth. My little girl wants me to braid her hair or do it up, and I have to make her sit down so I can reach now. She has grown tall enough that her long, denim skirt wasn't getting wet on the grass. That slim body and delicate complexion look so insubstantial, but she is a force to be reckoned with, in strength, in temperament, and in thought.
Owen wielded his stick the while, slashing at imaginary foes, pausing to pick up twigs and small branches that had fallen onto the field and toss them back into the hedgerow. The boy is a dynamo in his movements, and in calmer moments he can't begin to recall what he has been doing to produce this sore shoulder or that tired knee. Exuberant and reckless, he is, just right for ten years old.
Emma wore her sky-blue shawl, and carried her bright-green umbrella covered with black polka dots. She is my fashion-conscious girl, alternating between it-all-must-match-exactly and it-doesn't-make-any-sense. If this particular combination was somehow loud in the dimming, moist light, I could at least still hear the peepers. Now and then she would stop and hold her umbrella over her shoulder, and although the color scheme was all off, I'd see Helena Bonham Carter's character in 'Room With a View,' all in white and her parasol to match, walking in a field. It will take some time for Emma to agree to grow her red hair out again, and more time for it to grow to the beautiful, thick length it was before the cut over a month ago.
Landon had picked up a stick in imitation of his older brother, and he made the best he could of his little-too-big yellow boots to keep up.
Ella...I know she was there, but as usual, her input gets drowned out in a crowd. You hear her voice piping up, and don't always get the full sentence before someone else voices over her. Yet she was there, making conversation with everyone by turns, sensibly deciding to don her jacket instead of tying it round her middle, and offering to carry the sandwich bag. But I didn't fall for it: the bread was very fresh, still a tad warm, in fact, and the sandwiches were compressing themselves, even carried attentively.
There was such a profusion of talking, and ordering the dog around, laughing, summonses to come and see this and that, barking, Jonathan repeating his excited utterances many times each....and over the whole cacophony the peepers. At the highest point of our walk, we gathered around a rock, which, like an iceberg, is probably showing just the tip of its bulk aboveground, as a convenient seat, and because the bearer of the sandwiches happened to be standing there when everybody got the same urge. The dog got a few crusts, I know, although "I didn't see" it.
And then down, down, homeward bound. Count coyote tracks in the mud, here are some turkey's prints, what do you suppose made those? Oh, this might be a fawn, they're so small. No, silly, it isn't quite time for fawns yet! But not quite to the level of bickering, and a great collective groan as the dog ran ahead and lay right down in a big puddle left by the tractor's habitual track and filled in with rain. Only one mishap near the bottom: Landon went hands first into a mixture of mud and manure, but we pulled him up and pressed on.
Peaceful it was not, but pleasant, I think so. A small jaunt in fresh air after a day's work, and for once they all went up to brush their teeth and go to their beds at eight-thirty. I read aloud three more chapters of Great Expectations, and lights went out.
The rain has resumed, and the peepers go on.
So we set out, to hike up the hills, at twilight through a barely-definable mist.
Jonathan's little hand was nice and warm in mine as we started. He did a wonderful job keeping up, always kept going, little legs pumping harder to make his way through six inches of alfalfa hay. I admired his sturdiness all over again, as he negotiated all the tree roots and stones in the broken-up pasture terrain before the hay meadows. This was a lark to him, there needn't be any point except to be all together. He and I usually brought up the rear of the group, which is not a bad vantage point to have, if one enjoys observing and absorbing.
Hannah forged ahead, pointing out entrances to rabbit holes not yet concealed by light Spring growth. My little girl wants me to braid her hair or do it up, and I have to make her sit down so I can reach now. She has grown tall enough that her long, denim skirt wasn't getting wet on the grass. That slim body and delicate complexion look so insubstantial, but she is a force to be reckoned with, in strength, in temperament, and in thought.
Owen wielded his stick the while, slashing at imaginary foes, pausing to pick up twigs and small branches that had fallen onto the field and toss them back into the hedgerow. The boy is a dynamo in his movements, and in calmer moments he can't begin to recall what he has been doing to produce this sore shoulder or that tired knee. Exuberant and reckless, he is, just right for ten years old.
Emma wore her sky-blue shawl, and carried her bright-green umbrella covered with black polka dots. She is my fashion-conscious girl, alternating between it-all-must-match-exactly and it-doesn't-make-any-sense. If this particular combination was somehow loud in the dimming, moist light, I could at least still hear the peepers. Now and then she would stop and hold her umbrella over her shoulder, and although the color scheme was all off, I'd see Helena Bonham Carter's character in 'Room With a View,' all in white and her parasol to match, walking in a field. It will take some time for Emma to agree to grow her red hair out again, and more time for it to grow to the beautiful, thick length it was before the cut over a month ago.
Landon had picked up a stick in imitation of his older brother, and he made the best he could of his little-too-big yellow boots to keep up.
Ella...I know she was there, but as usual, her input gets drowned out in a crowd. You hear her voice piping up, and don't always get the full sentence before someone else voices over her. Yet she was there, making conversation with everyone by turns, sensibly deciding to don her jacket instead of tying it round her middle, and offering to carry the sandwich bag. But I didn't fall for it: the bread was very fresh, still a tad warm, in fact, and the sandwiches were compressing themselves, even carried attentively.
There was such a profusion of talking, and ordering the dog around, laughing, summonses to come and see this and that, barking, Jonathan repeating his excited utterances many times each....and over the whole cacophony the peepers. At the highest point of our walk, we gathered around a rock, which, like an iceberg, is probably showing just the tip of its bulk aboveground, as a convenient seat, and because the bearer of the sandwiches happened to be standing there when everybody got the same urge. The dog got a few crusts, I know, although "I didn't see" it.
And then down, down, homeward bound. Count coyote tracks in the mud, here are some turkey's prints, what do you suppose made those? Oh, this might be a fawn, they're so small. No, silly, it isn't quite time for fawns yet! But not quite to the level of bickering, and a great collective groan as the dog ran ahead and lay right down in a big puddle left by the tractor's habitual track and filled in with rain. Only one mishap near the bottom: Landon went hands first into a mixture of mud and manure, but we pulled him up and pressed on.
Peaceful it was not, but pleasant, I think so. A small jaunt in fresh air after a day's work, and for once they all went up to brush their teeth and go to their beds at eight-thirty. I read aloud three more chapters of Great Expectations, and lights went out.
The rain has resumed, and the peepers go on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)