They Should Come With Warning Labels

There is no other age like 2. I personally think it gets a bad rap (while no one except other mothers warns you about age 3). The family doctor we had growing up said, "There should always be a 2-year-old in the house." And I guess he really lived by that maxim because he and his wife had nine kids. All this to say, I love having a 2-year-old around the place. Every day there's something new and funny. I loved when Lucy was 2, but Lucy has always been kind of a genteel lady, sort of a child channeling Maggie Smith or something, ever since she was born. With Elaine we're getting the full 2-year-old lifestyle. She's either at 100% joy or 100% despair, 0 mph or 90 mph, at any given time.

We get to experience tantrums almost every day. They're usually pretty mild and short-lived though because I live by the John Rosemond principle of "any attention, whether positive or negative, to a tantrum is like the proverbial match to gasoline." So when Elaine gets distraught because say, she has to stop washing her hands after an hour or so at the sink, I just walk away saying, "Look within, Laine. Depend on your inner resources and get over it." She usually does pretty quickly until something else comes her way such as Lucy getting to pray first for lunch or not being able to pull all the wipes out of the dispenser to wipe the floor with.

We're trying to teach Lucy that while we don't have to walk on eggshells at this house just because a 2-year-old lives here, we don't need to unnecessarily aggravate her either. I think she's catching on because yesterday she found a magnadoodle at my parents that Elaine had been playing with previously and discarded. (This can definitely set her off--if Lucy plays with anything that has even passed through her hands in, oh say, the last week and a half.) I saw Lucy tiptoeing by and she whispered to me, "I want to show Manga this cute picture I did. But I have to do it without Smoochie seeing, otherwise she'll just freak out and burn herself with fire."

This morning I went to get Elaine out of her crib. She greeted me with, "I want candy." "Absolutely not," I responded (hey, I secretly admire this. You can't blame a girl for trying.) "I wanna flush my teeth," she replied. (You might think this means "brush my teeth" but it actually means floss. Yes. Our 2-year-old flosses her teeth, unprompted, on an almost daily basis.) "That sounds like a plan," I said.

I'm enjoying these days. Her growth and development are just whizzing by me as fast as she races Lucy to sit in the favored chair at the kitchen island. (The chairs are all identical. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to this other than the fact that it is originally Lucy's place to sit and Lucy likes it and that.must.not.be.allowed). But for all her feisty, funny moments, there are times of almost unbearable sweetness. Sunday she came up alongside me and whispered, "Jesus loves me, Mom. Bible tells me so," and laid her head against my arm as if she was enjoying just thinking about it. And today while I was dressing her, she threw her arms around me and said, "I love you, Mama! Dese tights are too big!"

Yes, I think age 2 gets a bad rap. I'm soaking it all up and loving it. And am dreading only a little age 3.