For months now Miss 2 has been wearing the same size as Miss 4 but I have been weirdly deluding myself that it is because Miss 4 is sooo small. Granted, Miss 4 is super tiny. But this does not fully account for the size of Miss 2. Miss 2, is well, sigh, not a baby.
Usually, by the time there is a Miss 2 at my house, there is another little Miss Tiny Baby. When a tiny baby comes along, it is always a sudden rude awakening that the 2-year old you’ve been carting around is actually quite large. But without a new Miss Tiny, there are only gradual moments of realization.
There have been other clues, to which I have been (possibly purposefully) oblivious.
I have removed a lot of little onesies from my laundry pile. I buy size 5 diapers.
The car seat in the van faces forward.
And last but not least, Miss 2 talks in 3 word sentences. That’s a really big clue when your so-called “baby” says things like, “Miss 4 is mean! She hit me!” or “Want chocolate milk, EVERY DAY!”
The other girls are noticing. Miss 8 and I had a conversation about this just recently. Mom,” she said. “I keep forgetting that Miss 2 isn’t a baby.” “Me, too,” I replied mournfully.
“But Mom,” she went on, “Babies only sleep, eat, and cry. Miss 2 is a toddler.”
(I fear she may even be past toddler.)
Last night a friend came over and with all the girls seated in the kitchen eating ice cream he said, “So, is the baby asleep? I thought you guys had a baby, right?”
(AHH!!)
But even after all of these clues and comments, my biggest awakening and the fact that I just can’t ignore is something unexpected. . . . . It’s the high chair.
For about 10 years now I have had a big white plastic high chair in my kitchen. It is always there, waiting and ready for a baby to sit up and have some rice cereal or graham crackers.
This week I put it away.
I cleaned it. I took it apart. I put it in the basement.
Miss 2 is sitting up at the table with a plate and a spoon and a fork. And she is doing just fine.
I keep noticing that empty spot in the kitchen from the corner of my eyes. It feels weird. It feels, well, empty.
But in a strange way, it feels good, too. Because Miss 2 is moving on and doing all kinds of exciting things. She is learning and growing and playing outside on the swings. She is building blocks, digging in the sand table, and pretending she is a princess. And she is wonderfully capable of doing big girl things like patting my cheeks and saying, “Mama, I love you!”
I am finding myself quite happy that Miss 2 is two and I plan to enjoy her as much as I can.
