Today, you are twenty-six months old. Last month, I opened your newsletter by mentioning that I was actually writing it a few days ahead of time and using Blogger's handy-dandy "scheduled post" option to have it post on the right day, since we would be away on our Circle Tour at that time. I said: "I'm hoping you don't pick up any brand new skills in the lag time between writing and posting this newsletter, making it completely obsolete."
Ha! Ha ha ha ha. HAAAAHHHH. Ha.
On that circle tour, you learned how to sing the entire alphabet. You learned how to identify (and request) Raffi music. You learned how to fall asleep in a big bed, by yourself or with me beside you. And my favourite - we were at a playground with your Uncle Mikey and for ten minutes we watched you attempt, over and over, to climb up a certain structure. Every time, you would say "Need help" and I would help you. Then, suddenly, I reached out my hand to help you and you no longer needed my help. Through sheer persistence and willpower, you had taught yourself how to climb up alone.
Oh, Gwen. You are SO my daughter. And I am so very proud of you!
Your love of music and singing continues. You sing along to just about anything familiar these days. I was quite impressed to see you listening to Raffi's "Wiggle Your Waggles Away," and following all the sung instructions for the actions: yawning, clapping, stomping, wiggling, and so on. You follow Raffi's instructions a whole lot better than you follow your parents', but I suppose that's no surprise.
We've made a bit of progress on the "all by self" requests by declaring certain things "Mama's job". For example, it's Mama's job to put you in your carseat and buckle you in safely. It's YOUR job to tell me what you did that day, or what song you want to sing, or whatever other question I can think of to distract you. You seem to accept this. Of course, you use this to your own advantage as well, and are very good at telling us what is Mama's job, what is Dada's job, and what is Gwen's job.
Actually, you're pretty bossy these days. "Imperious" is the word that springs to mind. It's partly my fault, since I let you get away with it more than I should, for the sake of keeping the peace. But we need to get on top of it, because it is already not uncommon for you to order us around like servants, directing us as to what chairs we should sit in for dinner, demanding that we put our feet down from the coffee table, and insisting that you want your milk not in THAT cup, in the OTHER cup! All of these commands, of course, are issued in tones of near-hysteria, as if you cannot BELIEVE the low quality of help on the market these days.
I love you so much, Gwen, and I love being your Mama. I can't wait to see what the rest of the summer brings for you and your adventurous spirit.