Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Legume, 22 months
She’s warm and just slightly sticky, her breath sweet with strawberries and ice cream. She is sun-warmed toffee, a glazed Cinnabon. Grasping hands reaching for me, a warmth held against me as we cuddle off to sleep.
She is a loud and dramatic toddler. Mercurial in temperament, sunshine and tears. Today she happily picked out a purple sweater, laughing. Then burst into tears when I pulled the sweater over her head. Then stopped crying and beamed. She cries when you tell her to wash her hands. She cries when you stop her from playing in the waste basket. She cries when you tell her “No.” She cries when you hand her a bowl of cheerios. There are days that she cries at anything.
She's like a moody teenager who can't talk (other than a few understandable words) but expects you to read her mind.
She is a fashion diva. She loves hats, shoes, purses. She loves to wear her big sister’s ladybug Halloween costume (last year’s Halloween costume, discovered in a closet). She has very definite taste in clothes. A month ago we went on a little family vacation to an indoor water park resort. There, my husband introduced Legume to a pair of blue toddler Crocs to wear around the pool. Now Legume wants to wear those crocs all the time.
She is her big sister’s shadow. Her sister’s copycat, her acolyte, her worshipper and pupil and rival. Bean-girl gets up from the dining table to spin in circles on the floor? Legume begs to be released from her high chair so that she can do the same. Bean-girl practices her ballet moves? Legume must try as well. It’s no longer enough that Legume drink from the same color cup that Bean-girl uses. Now Legume is demanding Bean-girl’s cup itself! (it’s the same milk in both cups, little Legume). Whatever Bean-girl has, Legume must have as well.
Legume’s favorite words? “No” and “Gimmee.”
She refuses to use a toddler spoon now. She eats only with big-people utensils. At the table, she drinks only from an open-mouthed cup. She’s started to walk up the stairs, holding onto the railings with one hand (this makes me very nervous). She is slowly, all on her own, giving up nursing. We don’t even nurse every night now—not even when I’m the one putting her to sleep.
She’s not a baby anymore, as husband saw fit to remind me today.
She’s 22 months, and growing up so fast.
She’s not a baby, but she’ll always be my baby.