Two and a half is cashew crumbs and puzzle pieces and crayon wrappers strewn around the office floor.
Two and a half is – day after day – removing yet another tag from her shirt, pants, stuffed animals because, “Mom, I did not invite them to be there. They are making me crazy.”
It’s piles of blankets on the kitchen floor telling stories about the hungry hippopotamus who accidentally ate a boot. A parade around the kitchen island – bumblebee baton in one hand, Frosty in the other. Another haircut. Another fingernail trimming. Another bubble bath.
Two and a half is a lunchtime prayer – hands clasped, eyes tight shut – “God, you can borrow our gray van if you promise to bring it back in three hours.”
It’s a mother’s heart melting, a father’s laugh lines deepening.
It’s another grocery run for Play-Doh, another masterpiece drawing to mail, another lost sock in the laundry.
It’s a hidden confidence; an unspoken independence.
Two and a half is alphabet songs, cut-up grapes. It’s “Chase me! Throw me! Catch me! Spin me!”
It’s the holy ordinary. The sacred mundane.
The curbside treasure.