My WaterlooMay 9, 2012 at 10:29 am | Posted in Bun, Transylvania | 21 Comments
Tags: Babies, Birthday, Boys, Children, Expats, Family, Milestones, Motherhood, Play, Relationships
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.