We never forgive them for this.
They never understand why it was wrong.
My dessert baby turned officially two today–a surprise to everybody in day care, as we brought a little cake and little favors and held an impromptu party after naptime, since mom got to be home today–but it wasn’t a surprise to us. It’s not like we haven’t had signs.
There has been the constant chatty-ness–open it, give me that, want it, mine, give it back, mine, Chicken come back, where’d T go, Kewyn that’s mine, mama come here, want bite, eat, eat, eat, come sit, come feed me, no want bottle, give bottle to Kewyn, Kewyn give me bottle, Daddy want sit...you get the picture.
There has been the terrible, unrelenting bossy-ness– see above.
There has been the insistence on wearing specific pretty things on specific days. Also related to bossy-ness–see above.
There has been a desire to take off her diaper and run around bare-assed naked under her dress. I think that’s a family thing, because the Cave Troll can’t go outside unless his clothes hit the floor.
There has been the philosophical differences regarding bedtime. We say it’s around 9:30. She insists it’s at least two hours after whenever we say it is.
There has been the absolute willingness to do whatever her brother does, faster, better, and with less fear and more potential for bodily risk. I understand that this is a side-benefit from being an Aries, which is the astrological sign equivalent of Tigger in Pooh-strology. Unfortunately, her brother is a Scorpio (or, in Pooh-strology, a Rabbit, with some Tigger sympathies) which means he’s constantly getting her into trouble and then ratting her out. @#$$%ing Rabbit. I myself am a Heffalump–we’re slightly imaginary creatures who paint everything purple. It doesn’t put me in good parenting position–I need to be reborn as a Christopher Robin, but I don’t see how that’s going to happen.
There has been the ability to run around in circles beyond the capacity for rational thought.
There has been the sudden jumps in logic and intuition, both of which point to a frighteningly smart young Tigger, and I’ve mentioned this before, one that scares me shitless.
There has been a diabolical increase in the cuteness amperage, which you have all witnessed first hand and which makes reigning in all of the other two-ishness difficult (but not impossible…thanks to our other once-cute children, we do have some cuteness armor at our disposal. They are also less cute after they have sat their bare asses on your head as you are trying to nap. That is the wrong angle for cuteness, there is no doubt about it.)
So there you have it. She has committed her first sin as a child–she has grown older. Of course we forgive her. She’s beautiful. She’s terrifying. She’s frickin’ adorable. She’s my dessert baby, my Ladybug, my plump little piglet with the Tigger’s soul, my blue-eyed red-head, my baby-genius, my kick-back child who has listened to me sing since she was an hour old, and wraps her arms around my neck and says “I love you, mama” and means it. She’s my true-north, my evening breeze, my Littlest, my hug-the-cat, my best-for-last, my chocolate eclair and strawberry short-cake and almond-liqueur truffle baby. She’s the reason I had four. She’s my Arwyn Star and she’s two, and Goddess help us all.