Hi, I'm Two

I’m my mommy’s baby. And I was quite a surprise to her. Then when I was born, I shocked everyone with my surfer blonde hair. These were just my first surprises of many.

I am sweet. No, really. I am usually smiling or looking very interested in whatever it is I’m supposed to be interested in. I very obediently go to time out when I need to. I am very kissable and I give great kisses. I also love to give slippy sloppies, which I made up. I give them on cheeks and they are both similar to and different from kisses and they involve a lot of slobber. I am inventive like that.

I also have this spot right between my chin and my neck where I am the most ticklish. And I love it when my mom buries her face right there and gets it. When she does, I laugh from a certain place at the back of my throat and she knows it’s the right spot.

I’m my big brother’s shadow. Most of the time. I will follow him around, mimic his words, his actions, play with whatever he wants to play with. And then just at the most strategic opportunity, when I’ve made him believe that he is in total control, I’ll grab his beloved car or tractor and stare him right in the eye, frozen, to test what he’ll do in return. Usually he cries like a baby to mom or dad.

When I cry, my face scrunches up, like it has since I was born, and I remind my mom of that time of my life and she smiles a little, even in my devastation.

But I’m not a baby when I take down my big brother and wrestle him around on the floor and show him who is boss. Fifteen months means nothing to me! I’ll take him on!

I’ll take the stairs on, too. One time I fell down them – oh yes, all 15 of them. Hardwood.
And I was fine.

I’m not clumsy, but I’ve given my parents their fair share of scares. Like the time I had everyone – doctor included – convinced that I might have diabetes. So my parents did finger pricks and glucose monitoring and smelled my breath and watched my wet diapers.
And I was fine.

(But, hey, who doesn’t love carbs? Are you with me?)

And though I’ve come unscathed from several near-misses, I do wear glasses. Well, most of the time – when I haven’t lost them, broken them, or chewed too many scratches into the lenses. I have nystagmus so my eyes shake and nobody but me knows how things look through my eyes. One day, I’ll let everyone in on my secret, but for now, I’ll let them keep guessing and figuring out ways to decipher what my eyes need and how they can help. A lot of times, people tell my parents how cute I look in my glasses. And my mom says, “thank you” and then struggles with that as a compliment. Because she wishes I didn’t have a reason to wear glasses in the first place. Though I am pretty cute.

In fact, I look sometimes like Ralphie from “A Christmas Story,” and sometimes like Dewey from “Malcom in the Middle.” And of course, other times like the kid from “Jerry Maguire.”

And my mom has a picture of me that she swears looks like George W. Bush. Hmmm…

My parents call me Doogie. I don’t know why and neither do they, but they always have.

My bubby calls me Bubby.

But I’m just me. I’m Reid. And I’m two.