I love the way Noah talks. He replaces f’s in the middle of words with p’s, which makes Mickey Mouse’s friend Goopy and Emily Elizabeth’s big red dog Clippord. He calls himself a goopball when he does something silly.
He calls a kiss ‘kips’ and refers to himself as ‘my,’ as in “my want that.” He goes through this list a lot, “My love daddy. My love mommy. Mommy love daddy. My love Louise.”
Noah showed me a picture of us at the beach. He said, “This is my flamly. I love my flamly. This is daddy, mommy, me and Louise. My flamly.”
Louise learned that you can splash in the bathtub. This is hysterical. Her laughter is infectious.
Noah goes down the slide on his belly. Six months ago he was afraid to go down it any way.
Louise likes to play “ghost” with Noah. It’s like peekaboo, but Noah is a ghost. There might be more to it, but I haven’t figured it out yet.
Noah is so happy that we have been going on family walks again.
Louise discovered that the outside swing is fun to be in.
Noah does yoga with us. Correction–Noah does five minutes of yoga and then climbs on us the rest of the time. There is a lot of laughing.
Louise sits and reaches for toys. If she would stay on her belly for any length of time, I think she’d be scooting.
A look at my recent conversations:
Put your toys in the box please.
Because I keep tripping on them.
Because I can’t see them when I’m holding Louise.
Because I said so.
We always say hi to our neighbors.
Because it lets them know that we care
Because those are the rules of human social interaction.
Because I said so.
Don’t step on your sister.
BECAUSE I SAID SO!
It doesn’t feel like ten years. But how else could we have fit in a first dance under the stars, a first kiss in a dorm room, a first trip to Nashville to meet your parents, a first hike in Gatlinburg where we were going to walk until the end before we realized we were on the Appalacian Trail, a first Broadway play that left us singing Abba years later, a first Mardi Gras in NOLA where you caught me a little green frog, a first graduation together, a first intimidating vegetable (artichokes) cooked, a first time making pickles, a first time saying vows in front of a crowd, a first time leaving the country together, a first dog, a first garden, a first house, a first kid to whom I gave that little green frog? Or how could we have had a second trip to Nashville, a second hike through the Arkansas wilderness where we at least realized we were on a super long trail, a second garden, a second kid? How else can you account for the wonderful parameters that mark our life together?
A decade just doesn’t seem long enough.
I’m a competitive person. With myself. With others. When other people know there’s a competition. When they don’t.
This personality trait makes it difficult to remember that not everything needs to be contested.
So here is my daily reminder to myself that we can both be tired. There is no “more actually tired,” no “more deserving of being tired.” There is only tired. And the hope that there is a light at the end. And the thankfulness that we can be tired together.
This evening I took a toddler walk. The pace was slow, and the company was perfection. We picked clovers and hit orange signs. We talked about the lack of water truck and the presence of a crane. There were flowers to color code and cracks to jump over. We touched every brick wall and discussed being two and a half. The space between trash cans were tunnels and light poles were for playing peekaboo.
For twenty minutes I saw the world through my son’s eyes. It looked like an adventure.