You are a big boy and you remind us all the time: "I big boy, Mama! I big, DaDa!" (You also encourage DaDa that he is "big boy" too.) You say "I" instead of "Tor" now. When you want us to come watch you do something, you say, "Ven, Mama. Ven, DaDa. Ven. Ven. Ven." You wear 24-month clothing with the pants hemmed. You haphazardly initiate peeing on the potty, but you are decidedly still in diapers. You bask in every moment you get to spend with your extended family. You ask about your friends at day care when you're not there for a while. You are curious about strangers but usually take some time to warm up to new people.
You're drawn to media of all sorts. You love getting new books and reading them with us, but at the library, you prefer to pull DVDs off the shelves rather than sit and read. You like to watch Elmo's World or The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse after a meal. You can hit the space bar to pause the computer's video play but you look at me guiltily when you do it. Your favorite marker is the orange one, and it has nearly given up. You usually choose plain paper over a coloring book when scribbling. You've learned how to peel stickers off their backing, and you stick them wantonly everywhere. You bang on any musical instrument handy (most recently the ukelele) and are tickled to learn new songs (most recently "Ring around the Rosy").
You have the goofiest sense of humor and you crack up at your own jokes, sometimes to the point where it totally incapacitates you. If you get a laugh, there is no stopping you from repeating yourself again and again. We taught you to say "REDRUM" in a creepy croak, and you've figured out that everything you say in that voice is hilarious to us ("IT SMELLS GOOD" was the favorite this week). You make a farting noise with your mouth and variously say, "I poop on DaDa!" "I poop on ocean!" "I poop on people!" or whatever's around. You've reminded me that delivery is the key to a joke's success, and that pee and poop are inherently funny.
You always want to play outside, so California weather has been a blessing for you. You love to hang on anything you can grab: the countertop, your crib, the hangboard in the garage, and all parts of every jungle gym. Your favorite games are imagination games; we never know what toys you're going to like because they all get used as props in your stream-of-consciousness toddler fantasies. Playing with you can be like dreaming because you scenario-jump so abruptly: first your stuffed "bat" (which is really a stuffed vampire) is eating a green frog, then it needs a diaper, then it's flying to steal your PJs, then it's sneaking through the closet, in which it then opens a pizza store with you. But you refuse to sell pizza topped with noses.
Your moods are still mercurial, but there's a strengthening reason and regularity to the things that set you off. When you learn new skills like opening a water bottle or putting together a puzzle, you like to "do it 'self" instead of getting shown how. At bedtime, you try to manipulate us by changing your mind over and over and over again about whether you want your blanket or your agua. You want Mama more often than you want DaDa, which can frustrate everyone, but I bet you'll have a DaDa phase at some point soon.
I pray every day that you will love God. Sunday school still gives you separation anxiety, but when I come pick you up you're happy. When we say grace before eating and before bed, you squinch shut your eyes to be like us. You got super excited about singing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus on Christmas, and you read your Christmas books and set up the nativity scene again and again. And because I think you can wrap your head around love at least a little ways now, I'm just going to keep on telling you daily that Jesus loves you, Jesus loves everybody, and Jesus wants you to love everybody too.
Happy second birthday, little man. Even though I snap at you sometimes and wish I were more patient, I'm always proud to be your mama, and I always love you. I hope you always know it.
