Monday, March 20, 2006
Three. It's such a funky age. Well he's not three yet, but almost. When I'm patient, I just love all the craziness that three is. They can do so much compared to before, but it's bumpy and such a learning process, and a lot of frustration ensues. A lot of plastic water glasses and milk gets spilled. He MUST not.be.helped as he struggles to spread the mayo on his own sandwhich, globbing it on there in inedible quantities and then breaking up the cheese in little pieces, sprinkling it on (mmmm...) Shoes proudly get put on the wrong feet, and endearing but not quite workable suggestions get made. Sometimes he ends up rolling on the floor because I threw the rest of his uneaten bagel away and sometimes he completely surprises me with long, thoughtful soliloquies about how sometimes he's happy, and sometimes he's not, and sometimes he gets so upset and frustrated ("fustrated") and then he finishes with a nod and an "oh yes! I know all about that!"
And someone asked Casimir if he had a best friend. He said "oh yes, Baby Carl." Which is sweet, considering he still sometimes takes to trying to pummel him in between helping to wipe his butt and asking if he can breastfeed him. I'm envisioning about twenty years down the road, when they'll both be like 6'2" and 190 pounds, drinking together at college, and Casimir will say, "Hey Baby Carl, get me another Guinness" and big bad blonde Baby Carl will pound his drink and get him another. He'll just be Baby Carl into old age.
And someone asked Casimir if he had a best friend. He said "oh yes, Baby Carl." Which is sweet, considering he still sometimes takes to trying to pummel him in between helping to wipe his butt and asking if he can breastfeed him. I'm envisioning about twenty years down the road, when they'll both be like 6'2" and 190 pounds, drinking together at college, and Casimir will say, "Hey Baby Carl, get me another Guinness" and big bad blonde Baby Carl will pound his drink and get him another. He'll just be Baby Carl into old age.
