In My Write Mind
He was due to turn two years old the next day. Two. The year deemed "terrible" by experts, the year toddlers develop their personalities independent of their parents. If the experts are correct, then he is "two" much.
Personality? In aces. More charm than most adults. He can get his way. This is the same little boy, at one and three quarters years old, who attempted to show me how to dance to the latest Usher song...all while nestled in his car seat. He called me by my "nick" name, NaNa (which, by the way, is two much), summoning me to follow his lead, bopping my head to almost spastic degrees, nodding in agreement with Usher's wish to Throwback. Of course, I obliged. How could I not?
He's two much, dammit.
Independent? Hellus yeah. Teach him how to dribble a basketball, and all of his 3 foot frame will digest it...and then do it. Potty train him for a week. He'll be trained for a lifetime. One can only imagine it was by watching his cousin run one day that he picked that up with ease...and just busted out of his mother's arms much like a track star busts from the starting blocks. He's a sponge. So much so, that if you cuss around him, well...you get the picture.
There we were, family and friends, gathered in the name of Mr. Two Much, the guest of honor, the H.T.I.C. (Head Toddler In Charge), the Pull-Ups Employee of the week. We were there to celebrate him, to celebrate his parents. We were there because not two much could keep us away. The sign on the outside read Methodist Church. But let's be clear. Today, this was the Two Much Tabernacle.
One glance away, and he was off. Off to chase the next yellow balloon, or the other little boys, or just for the sake of running away, his brand new Nikes a small blur. Turn your head, and he was toppling over the party favors, or lunging at the birthday cake, or cussing under his breath. His parents halfheartedly tried to stop him. But they couldn't. Today, this was his house. They had to let him eat cake.
Besides, he was two much.
He was a blessing, an answered prayer. The absolute best thing to ever happen to his parents. To his father. The amount of love and devotion shown to Mr. Two Much...is never too much (like a Luther Vandross song). Everything his father does, he has his son in mind. Everything he wants from life, he wants so that he can show his son the proper example, so that he can show him what being a real man is all about. He calls him Baby, Mr. Two Much. His baby. His little man. His little dancing, running, poking, throwing, dribbling man. He calls him son. I can see the father in the son. I can see the stubbornness, I can see the competitiveness, I can see the temper. I can also see the passion, the caring, the ability to disarm and persuade, the fierce loyalty, the smarts, the inner strength.
I can see the love.
And now, on the occasion of his second birthday, on the cusp of the year that, according to experts, will determine what type of person he will be, everyone that cares for this toddler, this bundle of energy with the dance moves and crooked jump shot, this infectious little man full of cusses and nicknames--everyone who cares is there. To say Happy Birthday. To say Congratulations to his parents, who were high school sweethearts and married four years ago. To christen his Terrible Twos at the Two Much Tabernacle. To make sure that he knows how friends and family are supposed to be.
We were there. Singing and eating and watching and talking. And loving. It was a sight to see. A sight that I will always remember; one that will never, ever be two much.
Happy 2nd Birthday, Robert Marcus Brooks IV. *Look, I'm dancin'.*
scribbled by Will at 3/30/2005 12:15:00 PM
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I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. (Joan Didion)
The Write One
Will. Lefty. Since Summer 1971. Over the next six months, I'll be saying some hellos, some goodbyes. Living, laughing, growing. Don't.miss.a.word.
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