To Annie: this is how you spent the day you turned 2 years and 8 months old.
You’re up at 7:15 and ready for action. You deliberate between a diaper and undies, go for the undies, and head downstairs for toast and yogurt. “Are we going to school today?” you ask, and are happy to hear there is nothing planned but a family day together. It’s Sunday.
You and Paul finish breakfast and gallivant around the house. I recently devoted a corner of the craft cabinet to your supplies—crayons, paper, scissors, play-doh. You love it, and spend a happy half hour pulling out construction paper, making two small cuts, and gifting it to us. “Here’s a present for you, just in case you need it.” I start making a Christmas sign on some warped foam core I want to use up. You request paint (pink and purple) to add to it. I allow this and regret it immediately.
A few minutes before 9, Dad gets you dressed and bundled up in the stroller for a quick run with Doug. At the conclusion, you make a stop at the Croissant House, your name for the coffee shop in the South Congress Hotel. (It’s right next to the parking garage entrance; for a time you thought all parking garages housed croissants.) I come down from the shower to find you all munching happily, covered in crumbs.
I show you a picture on my phone of you raking leaves with Dad a year ago, and you immediately want to rake leaves. Dad cleans up; Doug takes off; and you, Paul, and I go to retrieve the rusty old rake from under the house and sweep up leaves.
(If you flinched a little at the end of this video, know that I hit stop to redirect you a little farther away from Paul’s face.)
Then, it’s time for the grocery store. We pile into the car and head for Central Market. It’s a family favorite. You and Paul each get a seat in your own shopping cart, and Dad obtains a purple balloon for each of you. You lean sideways to stroke a red bell pepper and suggest we bring it home. You eye the mushrooms, and I hold a bag open so you can drop some in, deciding on the fly we’ll make spaghetti sauce later this week.
You say hello to the lobsters in the tank and select some dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in the freezer section. Then we get to the really good part: you get to pick out any carton of yogurt you want (it’s Horizon Strawberry this time, featuring an appealing cartoon cow), and then two cookies, which we’ll stretch out for days. In the check-out line, you examine the credit card reader with great interest and help me pull out the card.
Eating your yogurt at the table at home, you inform me you’ve had an accident, so—after finishing that yogurt—we take off your wet clothes and sponge you off. It’s just about naptime, so you get into a diaper, and we set up your sleeping tent. After 10 minutes of hollering about its placement (you want it closer to Paul’s crib so you can poke each other; we demur), you settle down and sleep for a couple of hours.
Paul is still asleep when you wake up, so we bring you into our room and lounge on the bed. You luxuriate in the full attention of both parents for 15 minutes, but are happy when Paul gets up to play with you. You eat a snack (banana, pecans, and a pinch of cookie), put your balloon back on your wrist, and push around your shopping cart. Around 3, we head outside into a gorgeous afternoon.
You ride your bike—really ride it!—while Paul pushes the elephant, and Dad and Sous tail us with the stroller. It’s quite a parade. At the playground, you swing and slide and run amok. You and Paul take turns on the tall twirly slide, and Dad teaches you how to climb up a new kind of ladder. It takes you two attempts, and then you’re a pro.
When it’s time to head home, you decide to walk. “I need to go potty!” you tell me, and I am grateful for this information although it means braving the park’s public toilet. You sit on it but are spooked by the new environment and do not pee, which results in another accident as we arrive home. We sponge you off again; you opt to conclude the evening wearing nothing but a smock.
From your rainbow of delicious foods for dinner—green beans, pink salmon, orange cheese curds, golden mango, and slivers of the red bell pepper you specifically requested at the grocery store—you eat the mango. (Okay, and a couple bites of other things when strongly prompted.)
We drop you in the bathtub and make bubbles with shampoo. You won’t permit much scrubbing but have a good long soak, sliding around and stretching out long after Paul gets out. When you’re all done, you get into your unicorn dress and we snuggle up in bed for an episode of Daniel Tiger and a fingernail trim. You want to stay in our bed for your book, so you go pick one out for us (The Paper Bag Princess). We read it. Then I carry you to your room, lay you in your crib despite your protestations, and run down to get your teddy bear, to whom you have recently become very attached. We say goodnight. “It’s very dark!” you pipe up in alarm, so we turn the lights on a couple of clicks for you. Goodnight, Annie.