Owen hits the 20-month mark next week, though it would appear he’s already firmly entrenched in the terrible twos. (“He’s advanced,” his father notes.) He regularly reminds us why cuteness is a biological imperative for toddlers, especially as he scurries from room to room, leaving destruction in his path.
He climbs then purposefully falls from furniture, makes his way up the ladder to Livie’s bunk bed (“the ONE PLACE that was safe!”), then heads to the bathroom to run hot water into a tub that can’t be baby-proofed. He’d happily spend the day pretending to drive our cars, honking the horn until the neighbors go crazy. When he’s mad, he’ll grab and throw anything he can reach, then gingerly lower himself to the floor for a quick tantrum.
This is a boy that needs spring to arrive—his tricycle is wearing a path in the house, and he’s desperate to be outside. Despite having a house filled with traditionally feminine toys, he seeks out the balls, trucks and anything that will make loud noises and/or damage furniture. Don’t think, though, that he isn’t influenced by his sisters—he regularly asks them to clip a barrette into his hair, and he’d give anything to spend a hour playing in the basement with them.
And, oh my goodness, he is so incredibly adorable. He gives the best hugs and the sweetest kisses. He snuggles up and says “Mama” with the tiniest voice. His dimpled hands make me want to cry. He’s funny and charming, and he’ll have an entire conversation with just “yeah!” and “no!”
He asks for help, says “good job!” when you finally figure out what he wants, and offers a little “meow” to your question about what a cat says (and a lot of other animals, too.) He says “cheese” before you take his photo and “hi, guys!” when he sees you at the end of the day.
He looks so much like his dad.
I love him beyond comprehension.
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