With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I thought it was time to paint a little picture of the second of my major achievements in motherhood. After all, Boy Number One gets plenty of airtime. So, the younger, he’s two and three quarters and it’s everything you’d expect from the terrible twos. Terribly loud, terribly emotional, terribly cute, terribly funny.
Resilience is Ted’s middle name. As a second child vying for attention he might be a tad dramatic, but that same familial position does bestow upon him a lot of thumps. He roars and screeches, and knows well how to say “Dominic do it” when the accused was clearly in another room at the time of the incident. It must be said though, that mostly, Dominic did do it. Also, Ted gives as good as he gets.
Clingy is his other middle name. He loves me to hold him close. He loves not to walk and to be carried. He dislikes walking up or down the stairs yelling “Hold me UP! Hold me UP!” no matter which direction he wants to be brought in. I tried a toddler carrier which he tried to fling himself out of kamikaze style. No handy back-carry for me; no, he wants to be locked on my hip or my front blocking my view and preferably while I’m trying to get somewhere fast.
He loves to rock out, enjoying nothing more than giving nursery rhymes a sort of spoken-word-metal hybrid treatment, as above. He bashes his drum kit and his ukelele. He sings constantly, on the Luas and in the supermarket. And I could listen to his warbling all day.
He refuses to show any interest in potty training. There have been tantrums over bin-bound stinkers which he would prefer back on his bum. He lies about when he’s done a poo despite the cat slinking out of the room in disgust and nearby flowers wilting.
Delaying tactics are his forte. Running late for school pick up? Ten minutes to accept the fact of wearing shoes, then it’s time to insist on climbing in the front of the car and putting on some music before getting into his own seat. Everything on his own terms.
He’s got marvellous hair. It’s thick and shiny and I’m loathe to cut it beyond keeping it out of his eyes but suncream season approaches and I nearly always give in to practicality then. Unlike his older brother, he won’t let me play with it and tie it up in bunches. The meanie. He does love to brush my hair and if I’m good, he lets me brush his. Santa put a small hairbrush in his stocking for this reason.
He loves to “help” around the house; getting an egg from the fridge for his lunch – splat; getting his own snacks generally because I would give him one yogurt where he takes two. He likes to sweep neat piles of dirt all around the floor while I have gone to fetch the dustpan. His version of helping in the garden is the excuse I’m using for my pathetic attempts of GIY thus far…
I forgive him all of it.