He pretends he's not going to kiss me goodbye when I'm nearly out the door to work. "Ok, I guess I'll go then, buds, without any kisses" and then he comes barrelling at me, yelling "kisses and hugs, mommy, kisses and hugs." And he laughs and laughs. He thinks he's nearly fooled me and he finds himself hilarious.
He is so stubborn and so particular and I spend a lot of my Executive Parenting Time choosing my battles and there are many I just won't fight. He sleeps in his shoes, sometimes, because that's what he wants. He wears a shirt two days in a row because that's what he wants. He wears his scooter helmet around the house and at dinner and even to Walmart because that's what he wants. The other night he wouldn't eat his pizza and he wouldn't let me eat it because he was saving it for Molly. Ok, then, buds. Whatever. Give the dog the food your MOTHER wanted. I'll roll with it.
He kisses me when I say ouch, no matter why. The other day he told me he had already given me a hug goodnight, so he didn't need to give me another, so I said, "Ouch, buddy." (As in, OUCH, MY HEART, GOOD GOD CHILD.) He said, without pause, "Kiss it, make it better, mommy?"
At A'Dell's house the other night, baby Charlotte was crying and he said, "It's ok, baby. It's ok."
Molly knocked him flat over the other night, accidentally, and he looked right at me and said, "I fine I fine." Then, to Molly, "Molly, BE CAREFUL."
He has a look that is my sister, through and through, an "oh fuck off" look.
He loves books so much, just like me, but he also has this perfect combination of toughness and sweetness that is so beautifully and heartbreakingly Mike. And Kyle doesn't know to be self-conscious of any part of that personality yet, so he is who he is so unapologetically and it's the most beautiful balance I've ever witnessed. I've only ever seen it in his father, and only when he thinks no one is looking.
He says "open in it" instead of "open it." And "ambulanlance" with the extra syllable that keeps him so close to a baby still. But not.
He's done this thing for a while now, this sweet thing when he's recovering from being in trouble or when he's sleepy or when it's a little too quiet in a room. He looks at me, smiles softly, and says, "Hi, mommy." Sometimes he pats my arm or my back or my head. "Hi, mommy." And that's it. He goes back to whatever he was doing before. It's as if he's just making sure of me, making sure I'm still there, still seeing him, still his mom, and I know he will stop doing it without warning one day because that's just how parenting goes. Stupid, mean parenting.
Like so many days and phases and different versions of Kyle that came before, I wish I could bottle this version and uncork it in a year or two or ten to re-live how incredible two-year-old Kyle is. I wish memories were more reliable. There's a chance I might not remember today or yesterday or the day before at all, and I'll have only photos, fuzzy recollections, and a blog to jog the memories loose.
So, for as long as I can manage, I want to remember that when he looked at me and said, "Hi, Mommy," I looked back and said, "Hi, Buds," and I was never, ever, ever happier than I was then.
Than I am now.