Today my toddler is two and a half years old.
I sometimes forget that 2.5 is still young and tiny. That just because I can reason with him doesn’t mean he’s always reasonable. That we’re both toeing the line of his independence, neither of us really certain where it ought to fall 100% of the time.
He often surprises me, maybe because I still think of him more as a toddler and less of a preschooler. His vocabulary. How he has a conversation with a bigger boy at the play ground about climbing the lean-to in the sand pit. His ability to recognize all of the letters and numbers 1-10. The funny connections his imagination makes in his play.
And, bonus! Potty training was a cake walk. He’ll now jump up while playing and run off to pee by himself. How can I not think of him as a big boy?
There are days. Booooy are there days. And nights. But then he’ll do something exceedingly sweet – a pat on the back, a kiss on the cheek – and thank goodness for that.
He is a sweet big brother. Except when he insists that I will NOT feed the baby. He’s very much looking forward to being able to play, and I think there are a lot of fun days in store for the family.
I know it’s cliché, but, wow. Time really flies!