Time, please slow down. I am loving this age, even with all of its arching-screaming-tantrum-throwing defiance. All of those moods and outbursts are part of the opinionated and independent little person that Natalie is becoming, and as much as I want to die every time she dissolves into tantrum-mode, I have become such a proud mama over her outspoken “do it ah-self” attitude.
I know that as the months continue to slip by, I will continue feeling more and more proud and in love with my daughter, but, seriously, this age? This age is my favorite. I love that Natalie is excited to help put dishes in the sink and trash in the bin. I love that she is using sentences so much now (“Excuse me, Mommy;” “Here ya go, Daddy;” “I need coffee, Mommy;” “I miss Daddy,” etc.) and will repeat words over and over until we understand what she is saying. She wants to communicate so badly, and her enunciation has become pretty remarkable because of all of her dedicated practice. I love that she tries to count the stars in the sky and jumps to her feet every time she hears a train go by. I love that she will set up the same tea party scenario over and over, just so she can name all of her animals to me once more. I love that she gets excited about visits from people she knows, and feels genuinely sad when they leave. I love that her wispy curls are turning into a full-on mop that stretches down past her shoulders when we wash her hair at night. I love that she sings songs and dances to her own rhythm and has fits of giggles every time we play chase (“Come-a-get me, Mommy!”).
In short, I am stuck in this emotional limbo of not quite being happy that my child is getting older, but feeling absolutely elated about who she is growing into. I am going to try to savor these last non-two-year-old months with her, and hopefully by the time that birthday rolls around I won’t want to bawl my eyes out over it.