Two years ago tomorrow

Tomorrow you turn two.

Two years old.

This evening when your Daddy and I kissed you goodnight, I told you that when we saw you in the morning, you'd be a big boy. You'd be TWO! This was the last time we'd see you as a one year old.

We've had the countdown going for a month, with the cute little ticking-off-the-days poster Nanna gave you. But I still can't believe it.

A few photos from your birthday party this weekend. You were such a sweet birthday boy. You opened your presents, with little breaks to play with your new treasures. You loved being sung to, and blowing out your candles so much that you said "again" and we did - everyone sang to you twice, and watched as you excitedly enjoyed your cake.

Today, it was as if something clicked in that amazing little brain of yours, and told you that you were about to turn two. The fabled "terrible twos" are around the corner (or so they say), and you're becoming so independent. Several times this morning you stopped in your tracks as I tried to help you with things, and said "Do by SELF!"

You're speaking in sentences, but they usually have a cute quirk or two. "Mommy Daddy sit down play with Wuhnuh?" (Yes, you're still pronouncing your name as Wuh-nuh.) "Doggy barking outside. Raccoons!" "Daddy home soon? Daddy back soon. Daddy at school." "Mommy say 'damnit!'" (Yes, I let it slip, and you quoted me. I was and still am mortified)...

Last night when I got home from being in Philadelphia all day, you greeted me, unprompted, with "Miss you!" and a big, big squeeze. You are too much, little man.

You're not only becoming a little person in your ability to communicate, but in your adventures and the tasks that you can do "by self" (or at least attempt to do so)!

Today there was a suspiciously silent moment or two, so I peeked around the corner to see this:

Georgia, who you love to lead around the house, ("Mommy, please put weash on Doggy!") was stuck by the bathroom door. I heard running water and chatter. Opened it up, and...

"Wuhnuh washing hands! Wif soap!"

Oh dear.

A few last parting shots...

Your Dad should win a Best Father award for the man hours he's put in lately to keep you, in your marching-band-obsession stage, happy. He turns on the PSU Blue Band, dons a 2-year-old sized plastic fireman's helmet, and marches around the house with you. Our first floor is all open, and a perfect "parade" route. The parade usually begins in the living room. "Instments" (instruments) are chosen - tonight you used a golf club as a drum major's staff - and the march goes on through the foyer, into the kitchen (where I snapped away), and back through the dining room, where the loop begins again.

You tell Daddy to pull your tractor, so he has tied a string to it, and tonight, after this weekend's birthday festivities, also had a trail of earthbound, half-deflated helium balloons bouncing along behind it. The two of you sing, clap, and march around for 15 minutes at a time this way, and you take it VERY seriously. You are very deliberate about marching with your knees up, and barely crack a smile, even when I laugh at every pass.

And did I mention your "marching band hat?" It's an upside-down purple felt Halloween pail.

Oh, little baby. We love you.

Happy almost birthday.