I've been mentally gearing up for two for a long time. Certainly for the past few months, but really since I had a brand new baby in a sling across my chest, and I talked to the mother of a two-year-old while standing in line. I remember thinking that two seemed impossibly grown-up and far away. Two is a real age: none of this such-and-so-many-months business. I thought some of that aura of seriousness would fade as my child got closer and closer to this somewhat mystical number. But now that it's here, it really is as grown-up as it sounds in my head.
Maybe it just feels serious because two has exploded into my life over the past several days. It's not the terribleness that alliterative culture says I should expect. ("The challenging twos" doesn't have the same ring to it.) Suddenly, Westley's comprehension seems to have increased tenfold, and his vocabulary is quickly catching up. It's the most amazing, frustrating, amazing-again thing I've ever experienced. Truly! I'm joyfully exasperated most of the time, because my son (who was an itty-bitty, fussing, pooping meatloaf with an alien belly-scab a mere two years ago today) is communicating with me! I want to grab strangers and exclaim, "You don't understand! I can have conversations with him now!"
Most of those conversations are about the characters from books and "Yo Gabba Gabba," but still.
Maybe it's because I majored in English, but I'm floored by Westley's language: he speaks in long, clear sentences, uses the right pronouns and articles, and can refer to things in the past tense. If he could write, I'm sure he'd punctuate correctly.
Westley's ability to really communicate with me--and his ceaseless desire to do so--is like a gift. Even mid-tantrum, he's still clear about what he needs and wants. Each day, I guess less and get it right the first time more. In that regard, two seriously awesome. It is the light of certainty at the end of the mystery tunnel.