Of Food and Love romalise: growing up romalise two year old
by Mommy Hobbies
In my napsack stash
I’m so glad that I blog about my children. Because, honestly, I think I might forget half of their wonderful little antics. They grow so fast and I mix my memories. “Did Cy do such and such or was that Roma?” Up until recently, I could not have told anyone exactly what my little girl was like. She was just a little parrot of her brother. He loves blocks. She loves blocks. He loves soldiers. She loves soldiers. He loves peeing on the driveway. She loves peeing on the driveway. (this is true) My children were just a symbiotic little unit, no distinguishing features of their own really…they just worked together, round and round. Until a couple weeks ago…
My children are SO alike and SO different it’s scary. I catch myself shaking my head in disbelief, wondering how someone so little and full of life came from my womb. Cy, as we all know, is a stick of dynamite with turbo thrusters. And now, as you will all soon discover, Roma is emerging as my sneaky, determined, self-sufficient, spunky little weeping willow. I call her a weeping willow because this girl can throw on the waterworks! If I even raise my eyebrow at her funny, she is in tears. Sometimes it’s hard to punish her because she’s so cute. She will slump her shoulders and hang her head, the lower lip pops out and the tears flow. She whimpers and sniffles and I’m standing there in the middle of her performance gripped with emotion. Yes. Moved, quite nearly, to tears myself. Little actress, who in the next breath will whip around, and change the subject mid wail. I.lie.not. Then, like a little princess she will ask for a tissue for her “eyeths”. (she has a lisp, just like Cy does) She will dab at her eyes until the tears are gone and quickly move on with her life. Just like that.
Several times I’ve caught her in the fridge and I don’t just mean, the fridge door is open and she’s standing there, I mean. IN.the.fridge. She is tucked in, with the door almost complete shut, sucking down Cy’s school drinks. Her eyes are red-rimmed because she’s hardly catching a breath. She knows that those are not to be touched, so she’s drinking it as fast as she possibly can. Or, I’ve caught her under the bed, my packet of gum in her hand, furiously stuffing pieces into her mouth, wide-eyed, chomping madly. Last night, she came into the front room and shoved her head under the couch pillows and was happily munching on apples. We have a strict no eating anywhere other than the kitchen rule, here.
But aside from her spunky behavior she is also very aware and concerned for others. I stubbed my toe the other day and was grumbling my woes she came to me and asked if I was “ok, mama? you ok?” So sweet. She cries if Cylas cries… although she doesn’t even know what she’s crying about! She laughs if Cy laughs and he’ll bark at her sometimes, “Roma! Why are you laughing? You don’t even know!” She likes her privacy in the bathroom, “mama, you goway pleasth.” But you can be sure I’m standing outside the door to make sure our whole roll of toilet paper doesn’t end up in the toilet, on the floor or in various other places.
My sweet, sweet baby girl. She’ll be three this month and I wonder where her babyness has gone off to. I catch glimpses every now and then, but she’s slowly leaving that world behind. “No” is a the new spotlighted vocab word along with “Oh, commonnn” and “because, whyyy”. Who are you? And what did you do with my baby??
life: almost three years old growing up romalise
by Mommy Hobbies
In my napsack stash
My youngest, who, to my surprise will be three this November and didn’t even ask if she could grow up this quickly, is showing me the ropes on all things girly. Growing up, I was a tomboy. Major. There wasn’t a tree I couldn’t climb, a boy I couldn’t out run or a fort I couldn’t make. I loved roughing around. My poor mother didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me in frilly dresses and fussing with my hair to make it “just so”. Well, she fussed with my hair, but that was because I was born with the fuzziest hair known to man. It had NOTHING to do with primping and everything to do with making sure her child didn’t look like an ape.
But Roma, my, my, my she is the complete opposite, so far. She loves to dress up in her “cute” and prance around, flip her hair and pose in the mirror. She doesn’t like to be spied on while gazing at her herself in the mirror. If you catch her, she will stop abruptly and smile as if nothing happened.
I love her girly antics. They are painfully cute. Nothing is more adorable than a two year old in her saggy little unders walking around with her shoes on backward and fussing with her hair. Sometimes, she snags my spray bottle and will squeeze water into her hair — in one spot, and then brush and brush and, yes, makes a huge knot.
Lately, she’s been punctuating her sentences by putting her hands on her hips. She yells at her brother, with her hands on her hips. She tells me “no”, with her hands on her hips. She talks to her baby dolls, with her hands on her hips. She talks in the mirror, with her hands on her hips. It’s hard to put the cutest kid in-the-world on timeout. Try it. PshhAh.
But frilly skirts and cute hair aside she can roll with the best of them. The other night after church, Cylas grabbed her in a bear hug and rolled across the floor — his back, her belly, his back, her belly. She was screaming and laughing…and being steamrolled all at the same time. She’ll run after Cylas, take his toys and bolt, she’ll scream in his ear, push him out of her way, wreck his blocks and giggle. She may be small, but she’s letting big brother know there are certain things he can not do without getting the “what for”. They speak the same language. Sometimes, I just sit back and watch them work their problem out. It’s funny.
Summary of other details:
She is speaking quite well. Has a lot of Russian words. Two and three word sentences.
Her English is good, too. Two and three word sentences.
She is very independent and
can be IS demanding.
She has her own timing and won’t be pushed to go faster, slower or coerced to do something she doesn’t want to do.
She’s terribly, terribly afraid of thunder.
She loves salad. A lot. Like she will steal it from your plate — a lot.
She’s learned to whisper in someone’s ear. It’s very sweet.
She loves going on runs with me.
She likes to pick up after herself and listens when asked to do so. (sometimes, she even puts her dish in the sink)
She has no qualms about calling you out if you “let one” on the sly.
Oh, and she mysteriously develops a *”cough”* when she is in trouble. There is no remedy other than, “Oh, poor baby… *kisses*
This is Roma at two and three quarters. *sigh* Time, thou has betrayed me.