Finely Calibrated Wishes - An Ode to Two

Oh 2, you have such finely calibrated wishes. For example, yesterday when I drove you home from daycare, you were irate, livid, appalled that the Fed Ex truck that happened by our car had purple and green letters, rather than purple and orange letters. And you voiced your outrage in clear terms: "Bry not want purple and green letters! Bry wants purple and orange letters!" You punctuated this vocalization with fist pounding and face contorting, fury seeping through your every pore. I can understand your outrage. The world is such an unbending place, isn't it?

Also, 2, your wishes today may not be your wishes tomorrow. Or even your wishes, say, in the next 30 seconds. You must have received instructions to keep us guessing. Good work on that imperative. One moment you want mama to take you out of your crib and shriek when daddy tries to do it. Five minutes later, daddy is king and you shriek when mama comes within five feet of you. That's a good mixture of power and confounding. Have you been taking advice from W again? At any rate, you don't want anyone around you to get too comfortable.

On, and an extension on that last point, 2. The drama? It is epic. You could singlehandedly take on an afternoon's lineup of soaps and emerge ahead for sheer quantity, intensity, and persistence of drama. Days has nothing on you. In fact, I'd say that your acting is superior - there's no phoning it in on days you're tired. If anything, you manage to somehow step up the drama when you're short on sleep or hungry or someone looked at you wrong. Bravo!

But 2, you know what else? You give the best hugs ever. You wrap your arms tightly around our necks and squeeze like we're giant tubes of toothpaste.

You're more inquisitive than a puppy, or a graduate student in biochemistry. You want to know about everything. Why? is something we hear coming from you more and more. Why is the bus yellow? Why do we have traffic? Why is that truck driving that way? When you're not satisfied with the answers, you simply ask again. And again.

You try to jump, throwing your entire body into the endeavor. You don't yet get any air, but this only makes the process more endearing.

You dance, a funny little jig, when you're happy or excited.

You make us smile everyday, a hundred times a day, and we love you for that.

The World According to Bryson

As he ages, Bry is developing more and more opinions about the world, its inhabitants, and its inner workings. Tell him something works one way and he'll chew on it for a moment before swallowing it or spitting it out. For the past couple of weeks I've been trying to explain to Bry what Steve and I do all day long at our jobs, so that he can try to more concretely picture us while he's at school. Formulating explanations of "teacher" and "counselor" to Bry's uninitiated mind has been somewhat of a challenge. "Teacher" is easier, because Bry has had contact with teachers. But trying to translate his conception of teachers to Steve's job in 2-year-old language has been amusing. Basically, I told Bry that daddy is a teacher, but he teaches big kids. The big kids sit in desks and daddy stands at the front of the room. Daddy talks a lot and the kids write down everything he says. Oh, and every once in awhile he starts a fire in his classroom during "labs."

Explaining "counselor" has involved more obstacles. I tell Bry that I go to my office at Augsburg College. Then we have a side conversation about what Augsburg College is. And then what a college is (it's a school for grown-ups, in case you're wondering). "Then," I tell him, "I talk with people who have problems. I try to help them with their problems." "What are problems?" he asks. "Well, for example, if someone is sad, I try to help them not be sad." This is basically what I do, no? When we had the conversation again this morning, Bry apparently was not satisfied with my job description. After I had finished, he responded, "No. Mama not do that." "What do you think I do at work?" "You push buttons! And you spin around and around!"

Um, sure. Just don't tell my boss.

I crack myself up!