Today my sixth son is 2. He goes by many variations on his name, but mostly I call him Buddy. He has straight blond hair, "moonblinked" blue eyes (from the owl Guardians movie which I have not seen) and today, bright pink cheeks to go with his birthday fever.
His favorite song, the only one he sings, is Happy Birthday. He just sings, "Happy, happy, happy." So it's good that today it really is his birthday. We have had a big snow storm here and were not able to get the presents we waited till the last minute to buy, so sometime today I'll send some big kids scrounging to the attic with the goal of finding some toys he would like but hasn't noticed yet.
And I now have 2 two year olds. They've been 2 for a while, for all practucal purposes, due to the monkeyseemonkeydo factor. And it dawned on me yesterday, again, that concept that has risen to the surface a number of times over the years: if I want to get pregnant again and have more children (and I do) I really ought to stop complaining about the ones I have. Even more, if I honestly want the Lord to give me twins in my old age (and I do) I should stop whining about my 2 Twos.
So this is my rejoicing over the screaming, furniture-markering, diaper-removing, fighting, compulsive-dancing, food-throwing, knee-deep-in-cuteness existence of my too terribly 2 Twos.
Happy, happy, happy, happy!
No comments:
Post a Comment