Here me roar

I make the call on the clothes, even pajamas. Case in point, this awesome, elmo-rocker-pixy-inspired P.J.'s ensemble. I will single-handedly bring back donning a stocking cap for slumber. Or, as we do here in the PNW, a bit of fleece (sustainably re-purposed from dryer lint, of course). Cause, I am 2.

I no longer nap. Momma does not need that two hour, afternoon break from being my sole source of entertainment, nor does she need to take time to prepare meals so she can shove a quick bite down the gullet. She needs a steady dose of my cuteness and pot lid banging against the cement solos to stay sane and focused on what is important. Naps are for neonates. I am 2.

I will continuously and constantly beg for sips of Momma's coffee. I need to practice my oral drinking skills, you know. And, I am a Seattle babe, born and bred. Our first beverage should be a fine, shade grown, fair-trad, dark roast with subtle hints of chocolate and ripe berries. Plus, it promotes a regular bowel movement, a topic discussed constantly by all you big people. My logic is not faulty.  I am 2.

All those grueling medical tests, procedures and emergency room visits.
They. Will. Stop.
Today is the last day I will be held down by three big people while some weird substance is injected into my belly, a big freakin' machine is maneuvered over my squirming body and at the end the big people who all wear horrible, green, loose fitting outfits (they should hire me as their fashion consult) declare that I am fine. My intestines work perfectly.

The reason for my every month 48 hour vomit fest?

I am a mystery. I will continue to mystify.

I am Aero.
I am 2.