Two Going on Thirteen.

When your two year old has two older brothers who think they're thirteen (even though they're only seven and ten), you'll feel like you're living with the shortest adolescent in the world. He will copy everything they do and they'll teach him all sorts of charming behaviors. He'll have a sophisticated sense of humor, laughing at farts and burps long before other children his age get the joke. He may even learn how to beat box. At least once a day, I hear "unh-chhh...unh-chhh...unh-chhh" coming from the carseat. He actually keeps a pretty good beat. He can also sing along with Alicia Keys, Lupe Fiasco and Chris Brown.

He doesn't always know how to use the pre-adolescent tricks he learns, though. I'll ask if he wants a popsicle and he'll respond, in an exasperated tone, "Okay, fine!" He hasn't quite mastered the eye roll, but he will. Probably by next week. Probably just in time to offend some nice old lady at the grocery store. Yay.

Sometimes, he gets the pre-teen act disturbingly right. After lunch today, I somehow managed to almost doze off. My eyelids were heavy, but snapped open, as only a mother's eyelids will do, in response to a small sound in the kitchen. It wasn't more than a rustle, really, preceded by a few soft taps and a barely audible click. Most people wouldn't recognize it, much less be startled awake by it. I knew it was the sound of a stool sliding four inches towards the counter, a toddler climbing onto the stool and pressing the keys on the laptop and a digital camera lens opening. Much like his mother, the human toddler has a super human ability to hear the sound of his plans being thwarted. As I walked toward the kitchen, silent as a mouse, I heard him slide off the stool. I found him standing by the stool, pilfered camera in hand. The laptop, interestingly enough, was moved to the very edge of the counter and closed. He looked at me, defiantly, I swear. With big eyes, he claimed,

"I din't do any-fing, Mo-om!"

Total lie. But who am I to argue with a two year old? I've tried it before. You never win. Seriously, never, because they're playing by totally different rules. They can always claim short term memory loss...or total cuteness.

I'm beginning to think it's time that Baby J got a new blog handle. Perhaps "The Flying J" as an homage to his insane desire to jump off of, into or over stuff on a daily basis. But that might be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm open to suggestions, by the way. I might just call him Baby J forever, though, because he'll always be my baby. And so will O and the X-Man. So there.

Namasté, y'all!