a day in your life

To Annie: this is how you spent the day you turned 2 years and 1 month old.

Dad and Paul head into your room just before 7:30, Paul stepping slowly while he hangs onto Dad’s fingers for dear life. You’re happy to see them and say so. “Annie happy! Annie is happy!” Dad zips you out of your sleep sack, and you run around while I finish getting ready and Paul tries to climb into the washing machine.

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You visit Mr. Paul’s bed (“Annie Missa Paul bed! Chalk!”), raise the window shade, and decorate his walls for him. You sit on the counter in the bathroom and help me pick out my earrings (“Mom need ar-rings. Two arrrings.”) You chew on a toothbrush for a minute and then hand it to Paul to take over. You climb into the chair by the window, where I finally track you down and administer clothes.

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We head downstairs for breakfast. I make toast and slice an avocado while you eat a banana and drink a cup of milk. It’s damp and gray outside, so we each take an umbrella and head for the car. We sing the ABCs on the way to school, and you point out all the cranes and instruct them to turn around. As we approach campus, you rehearse what you will tell your teachers about the journey. “Ahn saw crane, Maricela. I saw crane, Maricela.”

I wave bye-bye to you as you sit down at the tiny table for second breakfast. You presumably have a normal day—after their above-and-beyond documentation for your 2-year birthday, I do not have the heart to ask your teachers for notes again. I see you again at 5:15. You are finishing a drawing and bring it over to show me. It’s scribbles.

I drive home while you free-associate in the back seat. “Harper dad.” “Maricela says ‘callate.'” “More crane! Crane. Crane.” “Annie see Daddy.” “Almost home!”

You request a little playtime in the car before we go in. You manage to start the engine. Sigh.
You request a little playtime in the car before we go in. You manage to start the engine. Sigh.

Dad has dinner ready to serve, a second day of chicken and pasta alfredo from Costco, beefed up with broccoli. We used to be cooks, I swear it. When your hunger is satisfied, you start distributing your food. “Mom, noodle for yooooou,” you sing sweetly as you drop one from your fist onto my plate.

It’s a cool-for-May evening, and we’ve got an hour and twenty minutes until bedtime, so we load you and Paul into the stroller and make a wide loop through the neighborhood that includes a stop at Amy’s ice cream. It’s been a year since you’ve had any such thing, so you don’t know what’s coming, but when it arrives, oh my.

Dad mops the worst of it off of you.
Dad mops the worst of it off of you.

No skipping bathtime after that stickiness, so once we’re home, it’s into the tub. Paul conducts his usual thoughtful bath-toy business while you shriek in despair and try to climb out of the tub. Dad scrubs you fast, and I scoop you up to get you dry and dressed.

We do a little light flying.
We do a little light flying.

You spend your last twenty minutes making demands, and yell-crying when they are not met. (During the same stretch last night, you giggled and squealed and bestowed hugs and kisses. You keep us on our toes.) Dad tells you to behave because tonight is going on your permanent record; you are unmoved. At 7:25, we stuff Paul into his sleep sack so that you will demand yours as well, and we settle in for a rendition of Dragons Dinosaurs Love Tacos. You allow it. Dad and I sing our clumsy lullaby duet as I lay you in your crib and he settles Paul into his, then it’s lights out, and goodnight!

(Bonus encore: Paul has trouble falling asleep and sporadically yelps about it. We watch on the monitor as the two of you pop up and peer over the edges of your cribs at each other every few minutes for the next 45.)

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