Last week Finnegan completed the second year of his life and dove headfirst into his third. At two, Finnegan is an absolute firecracker with as much charm, silliness, contemplation, and compassion as I’ve ever seen. Always favoring running to walking, jumping to sitting, dancing to standing, he is a furious ball of energy (like most toddlers, I imagine). He maintains his strict obsession with all things on wheels, doggies and pups (I’m still not sure of the criteria with which he categorizes between the two), “two”-ing (wrestling on our bed), and making friends with all people everywhere. Just the other week after mass he tried to walk out of church hand-in-hand with no less than four separate strangers.
And his vocabulary has exploded. Favorite conversation topics include: recounting events that have recently happened, like seeing a kitty on his walk home from the park or the nap he just took; the vast array of cop cars and “wee-oohs” (siren-bearing vehicles) that drive down our street; his deep concern for anyone who is crying but who he insultingly calls a baby regardless of age; and when the “cool mail man truck” has stopped at our house. He can string together three word sentences and (thanks to Papa) has stellar manners. He has an overwhelming curiosity surrounding the mechanics of objects of all kinds: kitchen utensils, doorknobs, or how the wheels of his matchbox cars roll over different textures. He can sit quietly for upwards of an hour making these observations on his own. This fierce independence and thirst for understanding is so intrinsically Finn.