Thursday, November 13, 2014
Two-and-a-half is a different kind of wild. A kind of wild that I never expected, never could have prepared myself for. An exhausting and completely fulfilling kind of wild. Frustration with the world -- with trees for being too high and shelves for being out of reach. With bike peddles that are just past his toes when pointed, or maybe with legs for not growing fast enough.
I marvel at his two-year-old body that falls hard and bounces back at lightning speed. The times my breath stops as I see him jump from a high ledge and can't reach him fast enough. Can't save him.
Just as quickly as it happens his body hits the ground. He pops up, brushes off his knees, and laughs while I try to remember how to breath again.
The nights he says "mean mommy" through tears and gritted teeth when I won't let him do something on his own. He is fiercely independent. Independent with no concept of fear. Of how terrifying this world really is.
This world is his to explore.
The locks I had to put on his bedroom door out of fear that he would wake up and want to experience the world at night. See the street, the lights, the cars.
"He is so wild," I tell people.
"He has a wild spirit like his mom." someone once replied.
And at that moment I realized why he is mine. Why we were put on this Earth together.
We are one in the same.