Some Boy is growing so fast. Our 3-and-a-half year-old wears clothes meant for a 6-year-old, and he chatters incessantly about Allosaurus and erosion and the inner workings of locomotives. I struggle to keep up with him, simultaneously balancing a remarkably curious preschooler with preparations for a new baby. In the hustle and bustle, I sometimes worry that we’re losing sight of the middle child. I address the needs of our precious 2-year-old Sidekick as best I can with devoted time together and grow-with-me-toys.
He’s smart as a whip, this one, and I watch him match his big brother with finesse. He builds towers out of blocks while his brother constructs buildings and tracks. He gleans knowledge of numbers and letters even though I don’t harp over the flashcards and songs like I did with the older one.
At the end of the day, though, I’m reminded of his littleness as collapses into my lap. His active brain is tired and he requires a bastion of love for renewal. Drool drips down his puffy pursed lips, molars breaking their way through. He gets frustrated at his lack of advanced words, communication broken into fragments. “Ouchie.” “I love you.” “Milk, please, mama.”