By the end of the summer, Fisher will be two and a half. Hard to believe it was three summers ago he started growing in my belly. Hard, because when I look at this picture, he is still so much a baby. He is a wonderful two-year-old, truly.
At twenty-seven months, he is adventurous, stubborn, strong-willed, sweet, scrumptious, serious, playful, determined, smart, adorable, short-tempered. I could go on.
He love Mighty Machines, has favorite episodes - The Construction Site, At the Rock Quarry, Dusty and Vacuum Vic, A320, Putt-Putt. I could go on. Can I watch a show?
His favorite day of the week is Tuesday, Trash Truck Day. Next week will be recycling, too. That will make him twice as happy.
He loves to drive his tractor.
He loves heavy machinery.
He loves Lovey, Glo-worm, and lately the two Elmos, too. (But I'm making him tuck them in next to him on the floor, with the yellow blanket, the one we used to swaddle Alla.)
He loves cell phones, computers, anything electronic, really, and the more off-limits, the better.
His little sentences amaze me. I love how he says "I cannot" instead of using the shorter, "I can't." My dad tells me I was a big fan of the latter, probably around this age.
He lights up when Daddy gets home, saying "Daddy come home! Daddy come home!" He runs to his car, opens the door, and gets in to help pull into the driveway.
He likes to go to his room and put himself in a time-out, to pout.
He also likes to slam the door.
Today he had an allergic reaction to a cat and ended up with a hugely swollen left eye. 8mLs of Benadryl later and he was falling asleep at the lunch table.
He is loved, very very loved.