It’s hard to believe two years have flown past since my last grandson, Keegan, was born. Well, maybe not quite two, but close. Come Oct. 5, it’ll be two.

Gayle and I keep the little guy two, three, sometimes even four times a week depending on his mom and dad’s schedule. As all grandparents, we love having him over. And as all grandparents, when the little toddler leaves, we sag down on the couch like a wet rag and listen to that heavenly sound of complete silence.

From time to time, Gayle and I speak with nostalgia of those days when Keegan was in his cradle, bundled snugly, and rocking back and forth, back and forth.

And to be perfectly honest, there are many times today when the little squirt takes off in an unexpected direction that I long for those halcyon days of the cradle — which is never again to be.

But, he’s healthy, and loud, and soaking up life like the proverbial sponge.

I hear talk about the ‘terrible twos,’ but the truth is, we could keep going to the ‘tamtrum threes,’ the ‘ferocious fours,’ the ‘fearsome fives,’ and so on, but what it all boils down to is the little ones are beginning to face and adjust to the world around them. They’re learning, experiencing — in a way, they’re beginning to synthesize their own lives.

And we, as adults, if we’re wise, should grant ourselves enough flexibility to adjust to the little ones. Just as you know your husband or wife’s moods and eccentricities, we’ve come to recognize Keegan’s little foibles.

He’s at the point where most little ones are beginning to put words together, but not to the point that most of them are intelligible, at least not intelligible to the average individual unless that person happens to be a grandma or grandpa.

For example, I knew exactly what he meant when he and I were at WalMart the other day, and said “butu.” He was talking about peanut butter. True, much of his communication is by pointing, grunting, or tantrum, but it is communicating.

Granted, there are times when he cannot make us understand just what he wants; however there is never, I repeat, never any question of what he doesn’t want. His little method of rejection is a neat piece of communication. He purses his lips, blows a soft ‘poo’ from them, and jerks his head to one side or the other.

Now, we don’t spoil him. You’ve got to understand that. Sometimes, however, it does take his a dozen or so “poos” to let us know what he wants.

But, like most of us, even at his tender age, he is a creature of routine.

As soon as he gets to the house in the morning, he has to have his chocolate formula that he takes reclining on his stuffed rabbit on the couch watching cartoons on the TV.

Now, this bottle doesn’t last long at all. Gayle and I are usually reading the morning papers, so when he finishes, he sits up, waves the empty bottle over his head, and yells, ‘hey!’ Now that word, hey, he can pronounce perfectly.

Another word he utters with precise enunciation is ‘boo!’. And he does that whenever I’m coming in from out back. The little imp will hide behind the ice box, and when I open the storm door, he jumps out and shouts ‘boo!’.

The boy’s a genius, folks. No doubt about that.

Anyway, after his formula, he’ll eat some more breakfast. That he doesn’t eat, he’ll distribute it on the floor in unusual and artistic designs, which he’ll run over when he gets on his little plastic bikes.

One of his most enjoyable activities is pulling a toy lawnmower behind him. Now this lawnmower talks, squawks, rattles, and bellows. It is an insidious device, designed I truly believe by a mad genius who somewhere is cackling in a dark laboratory knowing those dissonant, jarring sounds are fraying the nerves of parents and grandparents everywhere.

Every time Keegan pulls it in front of us, he grins. To him it’s great fun.

And to be honest, despite the frayed nerves, to his grandparents, it’s great fun also.

Kent Conwell of Port Neches is an author and an educator. He can be reached at conwel@ih2000.net.