My Waterloo

May 9, 2012 at 10:29 am | Posted in Bun, Transylvania | 21 Comments
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I can’t write this post. I just can’t.

I sit. I check the laundry and the celebrity headlines. I stare at the cursor. Blink, blink, blink. No words come pouring out, as they usually (eventually) do. And with every hypnotizing pulse — blink, blink, blink — I talk myself out of a nap I desperately need.

Because today you are two.

And I want to write this. For you, for me, for all those future girlfriends (or boyfriends) I’m going to embarrass you in front of and (let’s be honest) never consider good enough.

I want to write this because I’m your mom. And you’re my baby. My perfect baby.

The one who takes the batteries out of my alarm clock.

The one we call Napoleon because you’re short and demanding. And because you make nasally, guttural growling sounds, just as le petit caporal must have done when his troops flanked left instead of right.

The one who scuttles about with your pacifier hanging out the corner of your mouth like a soggy, half-smoked stogie.

The one who throws stuff. Lidless markers. Tonka trucks. Cartons of mints from grocery store shelves. Rocks, socks, books, pants, cups, caps. All of it.

The one who turns the oven on and off and on and off and on and off when I’m not looking.

The one who eats no pasta. Or bread. Or beans. Or cheese. Or carrots. Or meat. Unless it’s called a McNugget and contains your recommended daily allowance of yuck.

The one who carries around a nub of blue chalk for hours and hours until you turn into a Smurf.

The one who charms the şosete off all the little old Romanian ladies waiting for the 35 bus on Calea Turzii.

The one who poops more than any other child I’ve ever known.

The one who barters hugs for crisps of cereal or chunks of pistachio and then adds an “Ohhhhhh! Love you!” to sweeten the deal.

The one who could stay in the bath all day long, filling and dumping and filling and dumping and filling and dumping your little yellow cup.

The one who climbs on the kitchen table so often that I forget to be surprised when I see you there, unwinding a roll of Scotch tape or poking leftover muffin crumbs with your toes.

Those perfect toes. My perfect baby.

Growl on, my little Napoleon. Growl on.

Happy 2, Bun! Want to read his birth story? And my husband’s take on it?



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  1. Stacia, tu fais balancer nos coeurs a droite et a gauche, ce que tu ecris est magnifique, et je continuerai a te lire alors que toi et ta famille serez a des milliers de kilometres de nous apres Juin! 🙂 Marie

    • Merci beaucoup, Marie! Je rougis. =>

  2. Happy Birthday to your sweet boy! He sounds just perfect. Congratulations to you!

  3. I love this tribute!! Happy birthday to you both 🙂

  4. Two?! Wow. That magical age where they’re really not a baby anymore, but being the youngest, somehow the baby they remain. Have fun celebrating with your little dictator 🙂

  5. Happy 2nd to you all!!:) It’s a great time 2. I loved it with my 3. 🙂

  6. Two! Two!!? Well, happy birthday little big man.

  7. Ohhh… two is my favorite! Happy Birthday sweet boy, and happy birth day Stacia!!

  8. Hey, guess what? You’ve been nominated for a Versatile Blogger Award, that’s what! Congrats, and here are the rules (in case you don’t already know)
    1. Thank the person who nominated you (me)
    2. Share seven things about yourself
    3. Nominate seven people you think are deserving (i.e. versatile)
    4. Contact those people to let them know
    And when ready, announce this on your site and be sure to post the picture from the VBA site:

  9. Happy year 2, Bun! Happy birth day, mom!

  10. So precious! Happy birthday to your little angel!!

    (and after seeing some anti-boy humor today, this post of love was much needed)

  11. Two, already? How is that possible? (At times, the days and weeks and months go so slowly; then we blink, and our babies aren’t babies any longer.)

    Et je vois que tu as des francophones parmi tes copains et tes lecteurs ! Tant mieux ! Cela fait du bien, n’est-ce pas ?

  12. Happy Birthday little guy! What a wonderful way to celebrate him.

  13. Happy belated birthday Bun! Two years. Wow! I still remember when you and I “met”, he was just that: a bun in your oven. And then you went into labor and seemed like you wrote your 5 for 10 post during delivery! I remember admiring you like mad. Or maybe thought that about you as well. 😉

    And here he is. Your baby at two. No longer a “baby”, but I guess it depends on who you ask eh? Even when there’s a zero at the end of the two, he’ll still be your baby. With slightly larger feet 🙂

  14. Oh man, I’m in such a baby-of-the-family-post-birthday weepy mess that some Lionel Richie song just did me in. And now this.
    Happy birthday to your little baby. (I remember when he was in you!)

  15. What a beautiful tribute to little “Bun!” Happy happy belated birthday to your little man. He is such a lucky boy to have a mommy who is paying such close attention to the wonderful things that make him so special.

  16. Just lost a comment because WordPress insists that I log in with a wordpress account when I don’t really use mine. Don’t know if I can recreate so will summarize: how are our beautiful babies TWO? your writing is wonderful, always! love the details (as always) like “lidless markers” — genius. Happy, happy birthday to your baby boy, your Napoleon!

  17. Good gawd with the throwing. *Sigh* The throwing has to end, right? It’s been a year of throwing. Please, please, please find something other than throwing.

    Climbing up to the bathroom sink and sitting in it and turning the water on and off and on and off while spraying the soap all over?

    Yes, even that is better than the thowing.

    Happy second birthiversary, Mama!

  18. Happy Belated Birthday Bun!

  19. Happy Birthday to you sweet little boy!!!!

  20. […] you want to name sum made up planits with me? Planit Bun is qiyite. [She's mastered irony at age 6. Planit Bun is never quiet.] Planit flowr is a flowr. Planit Bunny olwis ses hipite hop. Planit Line is a line. […]

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