Yesterday morning, I made breakfast for my two year-old. Just like I do every other morning.
Except that yesterday morning, I pissed him off when I told him that, no, he could not eat his scrambled eggs with a knife.
And when I turned my back, the scrambled eggs were dropped and scattered all over the clean, just mopped floor beneath his seat.
I think it was a form of silent protest.
Three minutes later, two triangles of raisin toast came hurling across the breakfast counter, through the air and straight for my head.
I'm not sure what I did to prompt this one.
Please, can we just skip two and go straight to three, I thought to myself. Sometimes, this kid has more energy than I can handle.
Later last night, this same two year-old finally fell asleep.
And as he lay there so peacefully, so quiet and so still, he looked like an angel and I couldn't stop admiring him and thinking what a delight he is and how much I love his spirit and his energy and his zest for life.
Please, I thought to myself, can't I just keep him this age forever?
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Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons
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