Ethan seems to love being two. I'm trying to convince him that he's a big boy (namely that big boy underpants are better than pooping your diaper), but from my estimation most everything else about being two is awesome. Maybe I'll try it.
When I'm done with things, instead of putting them away, I'm going to start throwing them. Wherever, whenever. Dirty soup spoon? Toss it at the fireplace! Barnes & Noble nook? Fire it at the bed pillows! Empty cup? Throw it over my shoulder!
If ever we need to go anywhere in a timely fashion, I'll have a grand time faffing around, and I might even further forestall our departure by needing to go poop.
I'm also going to start demanding unexpected and incomprehensible things of others. "Noah, will you open this bag of chips for me? No, not over there! I want you to stand on the hearth and open the bag, then pour the chips into my favorite bowl, but don't do the pouring in the kitchen, go get the bowl and bring it back to the hearth. Then I want you to sit and watch me eat the chips. Thanks!"
If I've done something to offend someone else, feigned ignorance is the best policy. Other Person: "Erin, did you just spill that vase of 4,000 decorative marbles?" Me: "What? Nothing."
Farting is never off-limits, and if you ask for a kiss, I might give you one, but I might lean in and burp in your face instead. For spontaneity is the spice of life.
Just try to have a private toileting experience. I dare you. The minute you go into the bathroom, I will pester you incessantly because I will remember I have need of the springy toilet paper holder, so I can lose it for you. Depending on how long you're in there, I may obtain the special key and unlock the door, then barge in and do an old-fashioned panty raid on all your makeup and hair products while you're in no position to stop me.
I will no longer heed the principles of logical organization. For instance, I'm going to start storing my books in stacks on the dining chairs, keeping small electronics inside shoes, and hiding my most valuable treasures in places where nobody—not even myself—can find them. I'll also hide dirty dishes instead of taking them to the kitchen. And, months from now, when Noah discovers a moldering piece of tupperware in one of the office cabinet drawers, I'll act just as surprised as he is.
Please and Thank You will sometimes be said as sarcastic afterthoughts. The rest of the time, I'll say it so sweetly you'll need insulin.
One square of cheese and a glass of juice constitute lunch, but only because breakfast comprises several bowls of popcorn, an entire pint of raspberries, and as many pieces of candy as I can cram in without throwing up.
If you need a favor, I might or might not do it, depending on how good your bribe is.
The television now belongs solely to me, and I will watch my favorite movies over and over during all my waking hours. Even if I'm not actually watching them, I demand the noise pollution.
And finally, my completely innocent but wholly overwhelming adorableness will endear you to me in spite of my neuroses.
In the words of my role model, "That sound good?"