Artist in Residence

Chicken Little is extraordinarily articulate for the recently-turned-two, as well as uncommonly considerate, which means that she asks permission in eloquent English before doing all of the fabulously experimental things that cross a small person’s mind. Take for example these recent questions:

Can I throw my cheese down the stairs?
Can I walk on the wall?
Can I poop on your yoga mat?
Can I bounce my playdough like a ball?
Can I fly like a birdie?
Can I eat my eggies off my shoe?

The fact that she actually listens to my answers and generally abides by them makes me think that she is the most magical creature on earth. Of course, I am biologically pre-programmed to think this, but it’s a wonderful sensation nonetheless.

I believe that two is the most unfairly maligned of the young years. Yes, there are tantrums. Yes, every time I turn around for two minutes she tries to launch herself off of the furniture or liberate some permanent markers from my pen jar. There are sleepless nights. There are power struggles. But two is when wonder and affection explode. Two is when communication really begins. Two is when absolute, delighted distraction can still be produced from a handful of rocks.

This photo is from Chicken Little’s recent experimentation with a tub of hand cream. In this instance she did not seek preauthorization, which likely bodes of things to come. But for now, I am laughing too hard to be mad. That’s another wonderful thing about two—as the child is fascinated by rocks, the mother is fascinated that she’s somehow created a child in possession of the innovation and ability to create a work of art with a few fistfuls of Eucerin.