Three days ago, our oldest turned 33 months. In case you’re not the type that obsessively chronicles each month of your children’s lives, that’s 2 3/4 years. One trimester away from 3. It’s a milestone, of sorts, if you like looking for milestones in the everyday. I do.
As we got closer to twenty-four months, his development didn’t change as quickly as it did the first year and I decided that I would go for quarter or half-year updates, just to save me from typing the same thing every month.
Of course I missed the first half-year update by being miserably sick with Baby Boy #3 (who should join us in March 2014). So, a three-quarter year update is the next best thing.
One morning in mid-July, he suddenly started speaking in sentences. It happened that quickly. We were visiting family at the time, and they commented on his new skill. They were impressed; I was shocked. He has always been a big talker, but I was so used to the one-or-two-word expressions and Remy-Speak fillers for things he wasn’t sure how to say yet. (He still uses those occasionally.)
With his new-found linguistic skills came a whole new level of Big Brotherhood–chiefly the ability to boss his little brother around.
“No, Twiggies, that’s NO TOUCH.”
“No, Twiggies, put that back, put it back right now!”
“Twiggies, stop bein’ a toot!”
Reminding him that it’s my job to boss Clive around has become something of a regular routine.
A few days ago, I told him that he was absolutely not under any circumstances to tell Clive to be quiet or to stop crying. He could, however, say “shhhh”, in a nice manner. He took that to heart and now shushes Clive in the sweetest, only slightly exasperated manner.
His love of hopping is still going strong, with the added bonus of being able to jump on and off of things like curbs, imaginary curbs, stairs, assorted toys, boxes, Daddy, and one attempt at Clive, which Mama put a stop to immediately.
His love of music has only grown; he has an uncanny sense of rhythm and is quite good at matching pitch. I utilize the latter while we are brushing our teeth to help him keep his mouth open long enough. He is also good at identifying instruments in songs. (Like calling out the bassoon in a piece by John Williams that we were listening to for the first time.)
Like all two-year-olds, he loves to dance, loves to run and run and run, loves the overuse of the word “no”, loves birthday cake, loves the cat, Thomas the Train, playgrounds, singing, all things with wheels and repeating things he probably shouldn’t. He loves his brother (“Twiggies! I LOVE YOU!”) and talks frequently about the new baby, Anselm. He tells me sometimes that he has a baby in his belly, too, and I remind him it’s more likely that he has yogurt or oatmeal or peanut butter and jelly in there.
He never meets a stranger–he is friendly with practically everyone he meets. He is quick to praise and congratulate others on their accomplishments (like when Daddy finishes all the food on his plate, or when one of his toy trains “uses the potty”.) Or himself for saying something correctly (whether he actually has or not.) I’m a little biased, sure, but I do think he’s the most endearing two-year-old I’ve ever met.
For his part, Clive sees his big brother as the epitome of All Good Things That Must Be Emulated, from what is and isn’t funny to quirky sounds to make to methods of toy play to methods of eating to jumping on furniture.
They are two peas in a pod; they alternately adore each other and drive each other crazy, as all good siblings do, I assume. Ephraim is always anxious to wake Clive up from his naps so they can play together, and Clive is always anxious to have whatever toy Ephraim is playing with, because if big brother has it, it must be a Very Good Thing.