Two is hard. On Monday, I heard Jon say to Caleb, "We know you have a switch, just tell us what makes it go off, and we can avoid it." I chuckled, because that question sums up all that we have been feeling and experiencing the last few months. Two is so hard. 

 Except when you see smiles like this. Then two is really fun. And hilarious. And special and sweet. 

 Until you have a toy thrown at you. Or food. Or both. At the same time. Then two is so not fun. 

 Except when it is. Like when he says, "I just wanna snuggle mamma." Then I melt. Those times, I think, "Man, I love two. It is so fun. Can he be two forever?" 

 Until I hear a crashing noise in his room and realize that he has thrown a porcelain piggy bank and it has shattered. Then I hate two. When will it be over? I can't do this anymore. 

 And then he crawls up on my lap, gives me big kisses, and says, "Mamma, how's your day? How we doing? How's your family?" And then I laugh out loud and can't believe how funny he is, wonder where he has heard this before and then become very aware that everything I say, he hears and repeats. 

 Excuse me while I go clean up the plate of food that was just thrown across the room. 

Does this post seem a little bi-polar? Emotional? From one extreme to another? 

You're welcome. 

You officially know what it's like in my house EVERY DAY. 

I like two. 

Except when I hate it.