Last night I was reading the Baby Bean a story as she draped herself over the edge of her bed, long legs dangling. Since when had her legs become long? Now 2 years and 4 months, she is stretching into a Beanpole--a baby Bean no longer. She is amazingly articulate (at least her father and I think so), and every day she amazes us with a new word, some sophisticated new sentence structure. She remembers events well, and is able to recount them for us.
For example, here is her summary of a tantrum she threw the other day. While I was in the shower, Bean's father read her a story. When he asked her to put the book back on the shelf, she refused. He asked her several more times, and warned her that she would get a time-out if she did not do as he said. So she threw the book at his head. He swooped her up, sat her down on the living room stairs, and counted to 60 twice.
When I came down from my shower, all crying had stopped, and Bean was sitting on the couch calmly watching cartoons. Daddy was in the kitchen cutting up strawberries and bananas for her to eat. This is what Bean told me:
"I throwed the book, and Daddy counted, and Baby Bean cried."
"Yup," my husband said when I told him. "That pretty much sums it up."
My girl is adorable, and my second is kicking away in my belly. She (the one in utero) seems to be moving constantly. But she squirms and kicks most at night, of course. I often find myself lying away at night, one child thumping away at my insides, the other stretched over me, her arm flung out across my neck or chest. On the far side of the Baby Bean, my husband lies obliviously snoring. The cat is usually on my feet, too, yet another weight pressing down. I'm pressed and squashed on all sides, inside and out! This is so far from what our lives first were, when my husband and and I got married and moved to this town and this house! When we luxuriously had the bed to ourselves!
We decided months ago: our next bed will be a king-sized one.