a day in your life

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

You wake up at 7:30 but are happy to lie peacefully in your crib. We come in a few minutes later. Paul is delighted to see you and coos at you through the slats. You ask about “my baby”—your baby doll, which you are newly interested in pretending to care for. I change your diaper and your baby’s, and we head downstairs for breakfast.

You've gotten pretty adept with the spoon, but still enjoy dipping your fingers in milk.
You’ve gotten pretty adept with the spoon, but still enjoy dipping your fingers in milk.

After we eat, you and Paul buckle into your stroller for a walk in the pleasant morning. We do a 2-mile loop through the neighborhood, checking out the latest remodels and waving hello to neighbors. You roll with the shade down and your sunglasses on. Baller.

IMG_20170610_092012

Back at home, you and I play with your rainbow of cars from Aunt Peanut and then fetch our ukuleles for a duet (The White Stripes, Apple Blossom). We read a book from Charly about a space journey. Dad scoops you up for a trip to Costco; “Bye bye, Mom, bye bye, Sous, bye bye, my baby.”

You and Dad have a good time strolling and shopping, and you stop for tacos on the way home. As midday approaches, you begin to come apart and end the drive in tears, which escalate to hiccupy sobs when we won’t let you drink a 16-oz horchata and Dad has the gall to finish off one of your barely-touched quesadillas. OMG, the injustice. We limp toward naptime. Mercifully, you and Paul go to sleep in sync, with no fuss.

IMG_20170610_131031

Paul is up 45 minutes later, oy, but you sleep until after 3 and wake up much refreshed. We load up and head for Deep Eddy pool, where we’ll meet the Crowders. We arrive, slather you with sunscreen, and head for the water.

Waiting for the sunscreen to cure.
waiting for the sunscreen to cure

You have more fun than I’ve ever seen you have in a swimming pool, spashing around, watching the bigger kids, and “swimming” with an assist from Mom or Dad. We spend 45 minutes or so in the water, occasionally with company from Eleanor or Paul, and then it’s back out for a snack and dry clothes.

You are pretty good at sharing, all things considered.
You are pretty good at sharing, all things considered.
This kind of says it all.
This kind of says it all.

We schlep back to the car and load up. At home, you feed Sous, conscientiously returning the cup and closing the pantry door before you return to narrate her meal. “Sous eating dog food. DOG FOOD. Sous drinking water.” Then you create some art in a drawing program on my phone, and we look at pictures. (In addition to the usual suspects, you identify, without prompting, Uncle Mike, Evie, Dan, Peanut, and Clare. The Pig Roast made an impression.)

 

I spent about 10 times as long figuring out how to export and upload this image as you did creating it.
I spend about 20 times as long figuring out how to export and upload this image as you do creating it.

It’s berries and cheese for dinner—Costco treats. After a fruitless 10 minutes on your potty, you take a bath with Paul and linger to play. Dad hauls you out, gets you into your pajamas, and gives you permission to unfold your tent and tunnel for a final 15-minute romp before your 7:30 bedtime. You and Paul have a shrieking good time, as usual, and continue to rampage around while I attempt to read you Dragons Dinosaurs Love Tacos. Despite missing your bedtime book, you consent to your sleep sack and crib while Dad and I sing our lullaby duet. We kiss you both goodnight, and close the door.

today, in the car with Dad

Annie: Annie take shoes off.

Dad: No, you should leave your shoes on.

Annie: Mr. Paul no shoes.

Dad: Paul can’t walk yet. He’s too little to wear shoes. Annie’s a big girl.

Annie: Annie little! Annie is little too!

We are in for such trouble with this one.

Aside

sous the clean-up crew

Not only does she clean the floor of edible debris discarded by babies, Sous motivates us to clear the dinner table as soon as we leave it. Because if we don’t, she will eat: the leftover food off our plates, the rest of the pizza out of the box, the little cup of grated parmesan, and some cardboard.

Thanks, Sous! :D

Aside

alone

When the kids leave for daycare now, the house is empty. If you are not taking them there, you are alone in it. Your own home, quiet, and all to yourself.

Paul’s first day of school

Yesterday was Paul’s first day at UT’s Child Development Center. It went fine because of course it did. Like all parents of a second child, we take things for granted with Paul that were major, fret-worthy milestones in Annie’s life.

For the record, though, here are some features:

  • Paul started the day by ejecting an entire 8-oz bottle of formula onto the floor. Not sick, never happened before, just, I don’t know, swallowed wrong and started puking. Fortunately, the carpet was getting replaced the next day.
  • We all went to school together so Bryan and I could both chat with his teacher, Leah, and see the Bumble Bee classroom. (She’s nice. It’s a crazy heap of baby stuff.)
  • He did great but slept only 45 minutes for each nap, which meant he was delirious with exhaustion at the end of the day. Bryan shuffled him straight out of the car and into bed.

This morning he knew the drill and came apart a little bit when I left him in Leah’s arms, but he reportedly had another good day and slept for over an hour at each nap. And I managed to get both kids in and out of the car without Annie running into traffic. By the end of the week, this will be the new normal.