On the 30 of May, Clive Louis turned twenty-two months.
On that day I was also doing laundry, cleaning, and packing like crazy in anticipation of our trip to see Grandfather and GranMaggie.
I think it was raining, too.
At any rate, there wasn’t much time to take pictures and go someplace with wi-fi so I could share about Clive’s month. I decided to wait until we were in Kentucky, as (I figured) pictures there would be more interesting anyway.
I was right.
We woke up this morning to slightly cooler temperatures after yesterday’s rain, and Jeremy took the boys outside, barefoot, to run around in the grass. Clive, however, decided it would be a better idea to climb into Maggie’s washtub and sit in the very cold water. You know, just for fun.
The kid likes water. He is always asking me if he can get in the tub (“Baff? Baff?”) And shrieks with joy when he hears the faucet turn on. It is also a constant struggle to keep his chubby little toddler hands out of the Cat’s bowl, though I’m sure she wouldn’t mind chubby toddler fingers in it if she knew they were his.
He loves to pour water from one container to another, watching it cascade through the air.
Oddly enough, “water” isn’t one of his regularly used words. It’s likely that he’s still practicing it, mentally, in the car or as he is falling asleep at naptime. He generally will not say a word until he feels he can say it correctly. His “correct” vocabulary is far beyond what Ephraim’s was at this age–which is saying something, since Ephraim was one serious chatterbox. Clive is still the quieter of the two, but he is easier to understand–that is until he gets excited and spouts off some great long sentence in Clivese. Those are generally unintelligible. And often about water. Or cars.
He’s 100% walking, now, which he does with a somewhat stiff gait and his hands held out–his fists clenched, if he’s excited–he makes me laugh to see him.
He is enamored with everything his Big Brother does. If Ephraim is finished with playing cars, Clive is finished, too. (“No car!”) If Ephraim is done eating, Clive is done eating, too. (“All done all done all done? Pease pease pease!”) If Ephraim falls down and hurts himself, Clive finds the nearest surface and whacks his head against it and cries, too. I’m not joking.
I’m not sure how he really feels about Anselm, though he is excited to see him from time to time. I believe he is secretly thrilled for another chance to poke him in the eyes or stick his finger in his ears. When he catches me watching him closely, though, he gently strokes Anselm’s chest. “Nice, nice.” he grins. Whatever. I’ve got my eye on you, mister.