Two is not terrible.
It’s terribly terrific.
It’s frustratingly fantastic.
It’s painfully perfect.
It’s exhaustingly exhilarating.
Two is walking out of the house shirtless, in a rainbow tutu, with sparkly rain boots, a sideways hat, six necklaces, and all the confidence in the world.
Two is spending 45 minutes putting on a shoe because you don’t understand why the world is in such a rush.
Two is getting frustrated because your food keeps falling off your spoon.
Two is a mix of “I can do it myself!” and “Hewp pwease.”
Two is a tiny person with minimal coordination.
Two is a combination of words that don’t make sense together, yet somehow they make it work.
Two is cluelessly dropping an inappropriate word because you heard it—one time, from the other end of the house, three weeks ago.
Two is full of cheeky smirks as they extend their finger for one last touch of the forbidden object.
Two is hilariously hard.
2 x 2.
I almost hate how much I love it.
Previously published on the author’s Facebook page