My two-year-old is growing up.
I know this because all of my favorite words that he says, ya know, all the ones that he butchers and botches up, he's now starting to say them correctly. Like the word, "motorcycle," which up until yesterday afternoon was called a "wee-cycle."
And it sounded so weird to hear this tiny high-pitched voice properly enunciating the word, "motorcycle." He might as well have been wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.
Oh how I loved "wee-cycle."
I loved it so much.
Along with "wee-pop." Lollipop.
And "wee-cocker." Helicopter.
But those are next. I just know it.
So this morning I found myself sitting next to his little babydoll on the couch, which of course is named, "Baby" (because why wouldn't it be?) And I found myself rubbing Baby's fake little baby tummy and I turned to Baby lovingly, looked deeply into its little fake eyes and asked, "You're not going to grow up too, are you?"
He didn't answer, but I'm pretty sure he's not making any promises either.
Thursday
Wee-Cycle. Next Stop, Wee-Pop.
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