The Terrible Twos

They’re a myth, I swear. Whenever people ask me how old Max is, I always tell them the truth and with pride say, “He’s TWO.” Every single time, they say, “Oh yeah, the terrible twos.” I have to correct them every time. Max isn’t terrible at two. He’s great. He had two rough weeks right after his birthday, but Jen worked some magic and he’s back to adorable.

He’s well behaved. He’s talking now and telling us what he wants in almost discernable words. He’s funny and loves to play. He’s not terrible, not even at bed time. He has his little routine for bedtime. One of us stands up (usually Jen) and says, “Ok, bed time!” We change a diaper, find a pacifier, Max grabs his lamb, and we head upstairs. He goes down without a fuss, and we get to listen to him talk to himself for a little while before he goes to sleep.

I know every kid is different. If we have another one, I’m sure they’ll be different in many ways, and maybe not so easy. Maybe they will, just because Jen’s such a great parent (she won’t admit it, but she’s a natural).

Last night, we made a gingerbread house. It turned out spiffy.

Things are really good…