2 years
Jenny True
Gargantubaby is two and three-quarters. He loves to play "family": "You be the baby, and I be the daddy" (or, if he deigns to recognize the 19 months I FED HIM FROM MY BODY, the mommy). Mostly I play him, and he plays one of us, but he also loves to be the baby so he can say, "Goo goo, gaa gaa" and pretend to cry.
It's almost spring in San Francisco. The plum blossoms are right on time, snowing light pink into the pages of my book, Why We Can't Sleep: Women's New Midlife Crisis by Ada Calhoun.
Gargantubaby is still two and a half. He's using more words more correctly with more correct inflection and grammar. As usual, I'm not sure how I feel about this. Mostly I'm amazed.
Gargantubaby is 2 and a half. He's in the 95th percentile for height and weight. At his well-baby checkup, Kaiser once again told us to stop giving him whole milk, which we will continue to ignore.
I'm sick of men's holiday gift lists that include: BBQ'ing tools, cologne, whiskey and other hard alcohol-related items, beard shit, flannel shirts, hot sauce, and things made of leather.
Gargantubaby is 28 months old, but I don't keep track anymore. He's 2 and a half and he will remain 2 and a half until he turns "almost 3." He is a toddler, period.
Summer has cooled into fall around here, and it's a pretty subtle change in Northern California. It's too cool for flip-flops but still warm enough for no jackets in the car.
Gargantubaby is 27 months old. He wears 4T shirts and pants. Most shoes don't fit him because his feet are like little pound cakes.
This summer, my family achieved that pinnacle of U.S. class privilege: a family vacation in Hawaii!
It happened. My newborn became an infant became a toddler became a kid.
LIKE TIME THROUGH AN HOURGLASS THESE ARE THE MOTHERFUCKING DAYS OF OUR EVER-SHORTENING LIVES.
In the middle of the dumpster fire that is our country and our world, my 10-year-old stepdaughter regularly puts on her bathing suit and climbs into the tub to give my son a bath.