Scene: the monkey household on a normal Tuesday night. The two year old monkey has had a rough day at daycare (it has been reported that a certain short person was “full of vinegar” today) and is in something of a crabby mood (“No! You sit over dere, Mama. Not here”). At one point he looks at me with a scowl on his brow and says “I’m cross Mama. I’m cross”. And he is, for reasons he doesn’t have the words to explain. Or maybe for no reasons at all. Maybe some days just being two is the reason.
Enter dinner, oatmeal. Plain old fashion oatmeal with a nice pat of melting yellow butter and a handful of frozen berries, which is a new addition to the oatmeal routine.
The boy: “Mmmm. Dat good. Dat oldmeal real good. Dere’s fruit in oatmeal, is good.”
He hops off the couch and starts bouncing around, wagging his head side to side, shaking his skinny hips. A smile spreads across his face.
“Mama! I’m dancing about da oatmeal. I’m dancing! Looka me!”
And so I watch him, watch him as he dances about oatmeal, my pricking with tears. He is just so delightful.
After he dances, he eats two bowls of oatmeal with fruit and then curls up in my lap. We read Harold and the Purple Crayon and Charlie Parker Played Bebop and he lets me kiss his head and hold him close to me.
I love two. Two is more joy than I could have ever imagined.