All Hail the Wee One!

I have mother-guilt because I don’t publish the sorts of obsessively detailed, isn’t-my-child-amazing posts about the Wee One as I did about the Biggie. But then I realize that it is her own fault, since her relentless quest for self-destruction is what keeps me from my keyboard. She is amazing in her own way, and for the sake of efficiency, let’s adopt a list format. Keep in mind that she will be two on Sunday, and is the size of many twelve-month-olds:

She can climb up (and down) the ladder of the bunk bed. (“Me kime buck bed!”)
Since she was 20 months old she has been, for all intents and purposes, potty trained.
She has a sixth sense regarding the location of any knives, scissors, open containers of liquid, and anything which could cause a stain. This is uncanny and applies to households other than our own.
She hangs and swings from perilous heights off the side of play structures, dropping herself to the ground below. The first time I saw this trick, I thought she was falling.

And so on.

I remember when we moved to Ithaca and first hit the local playground scene. I met a boy who was the same exact age as the Biggie (then dba Toddlerita). The Toddlerita and I watched him, she clutching my hand, as he clambered over the monkey bars, swooped down the slide, and generally kept himself elevated six feet in the air, in constant motion. I threw dirty looks in the direction of his neglectful mother, who was chatting calmly as her child hurtled about. Why wasn’t she spotting him? He could fall and break his neck! I gently supported the Toddlerita’s rear as she clutched the railing and took the steps one at a time up to the slide, which she would not go down. Ahh, remember those days?

Now I know why that woman was so unconcerned. I know that she was so far beyond being able to control his movement that she had come to terms with the sheer impossibility of the task, and had let go, attaining a zen-like state of mothering. She was not standing under him, holding her breath, because she knew that he probably wouldn’t fall—he was that good, that astoundingly coordinated. And I have a feeling that he was also a grocery cart stander, and a couch-to-coffee-table leaper. And that she, like me, probably smiled graciously at gaping passersby as her child squealed and flailed like an angry, acrobatic demon-pig whenever she DID try to restrain him.

Happy almost-birthday, my dear Wee One. I am posting this now because you are asleep, and lord knows when you will allow me to write again.