Dear Goldie-locks,
When you turned two a few months ago, we got you a tiny shopping cart to push around. We knew you'd like it because you were constantly filling up other things with assorted items and pushing them around the kitchen: things like flour buckets and laundry baskets and cardboard boxes. This shopping cart, we hoped, would curb those other, unauthorized, carting activities just a bit. Abraham put the cart together for you secretly on the back porch, and then since it was too big to wrap, we draped a towel and a blanket over it and told you to find out what was inside. I love the picture of you midway through the reveal. You've got such a happy, anticipatory look on your face, but you've paused to look back at the rest of us for—what, approval? reassurance? or maybe just to make sure we're all watching?—before you get on with your task. Whatever this thing is, your face seems to say, I already know I'm going to love it, and I want to make sure you're all fully invested in loving it with me!
It seems like such a good depiction of who you are right now: the happy, excited, headlong rush toward what's next—along with the seemingly contradictory desire to make sure you're not doing it all alone. But I don't think it is contradictory. It's part of why I love two-year-olds: for all their famed "let-ME-do-it"-ness, what they really mean is "let-me-do-it-while-YOU-watch-and-marvel." And you, especially, seem to love being part of a group; one of the kids. (Probably a good desire for a sixth child to have.) When you get out the magnetic drawing board from the Church Bag (which you aren't supposed to do, but you do it several times a day anyway)—or when you gleefully draw on some paper, any paper, with the school markers (which you aren't supposed to get out either)—you inevitably hold it up in triumph and proclaim "I drew Baymax!" —or an airplane or a penguin or some other thing you've seen the others draw.
And your pursuit of this "I'm one of the kids" ideal seems to drive many of your decisions. It's not just the markers you get out without authorization. It's…well…everything. You aren't one of those destructive two-year-olds who makes messes just for the wild joy of it, but you very definitely know what you want and where it is, and are willing to persist until you get it. One of the first phrases you learned to say was "up high"—as in, "Put those markers up high so Marigold can't get them!" You've heard that so often that you sometimes walk around the room, pointing up at things and commenting, "Scissors up high." "Birdies up high." (Malachi's ceramic birds.) "Stories up high." (The pop-up books.) And so forth. You don't seem devastated by it or anything. You seem to be just…noting it. And then, when the opportunity arises and no one is around, you'll act. How many times I've found the bathroom stools out by the bookshelves (stacked on top of each other to make them that crucial inch taller)—or a handful of tiny fingerprints in the edge of the cake—or the hair clipper attachments out of their case and lined up end-to-end in the hallway—or a bunch of little nibbling bites out of a peach or a banana or a block of cheese—I can't even count.