I can’t even remember what Oliver was like at 2. I was in a newborn haze of sleep deprivation and nursing and what a fresh hell that was. And we were in England and we all got sick and oh thank god for the blog, I can read about it all. [Oh dear.]
So Oliver was speaking a lot. And starting to count. Oh.
Because we seem to think Callum is a genius when he does these things. Damn, turns out you’re just normal, kid.
But you’re cute. And you’re two. And you’re WAY cheekier than him, I don’t need to check the archives for that.
You have a passion never displayed by your brother. You throw yourself on the ground with such force when you don’t like something. You yell, you hit, you bite, you throw, you even spit (raspberry) in my face when you really don’t like what I have to say at times when you are tired and cranky. Oh, you are a little feisty thing.
But you’re also cuddly, a hugger, a kisser, who runs to hug his Mummy every day after daycare. Who still loves him dummies. Who says please and thank you quite often. Who snuggles stuffed animals. Who loves to dance. Who’s a champion sleeper. If only your brother would sleep in so long.
Happy birthday, little boy. Can’t believe you’re already two.
A bunch of people we love came for a party and it was good.