And then you were two. Two. I'm trying to wrap my head around this number because somehow two feels big. You see, two leads to three. Which leads to four. Which leads to kindergarten, and middle school, and high school and then off to college on a baseball scholarship perhaps very far away from me.
But that's a long way off from today. Today we spent the morning at the park, playing with your gifts, like the big blue ball, your sidewalk chalk, and examining toys sent from friends and family from afar. We rounded off the evening with a bite of pizza at our favorite spot and home to a cake full of candles. It was a simple birthday. No crowds, or jugglers, or clowns. Just the three of us together, kissing you at exactly 7:02 and feeling over so grateful you're in our life. Hope you don't look back and complain at the lack of said jugglers, but for me? It was as perfect as birthdays get.
I've recorded the details of your year in your monthly updates and it's been so amazing to see you grow as you offer your sippy cup to strangers. Hug your friends and shyly kiss the girls on the cheek. The way your eyes gloss over with joy at the sight of cars both toys and actual, but most of all I find it so endearing how protective you are of me. I've been to the doctor twice in your second year and each time you've been absolutely beside yourself as you protectively grip my hand and glare at the doctor as he checks my ear or takes my blood pressure. Once, when you thought your father was being attacked by a throng of children [he was in fact, being propositioned for piggy back rides] you leapt into the crowd and shielded your body over his to keep anyone from harming him. I love this. I just do.
But the most sincerely stunning part of your turning two? I figured, by now some of this would wear off. That I'd feel a bit ho-hum and bogged down by the whole mothering business. After all, two years is a long time. But its so far from the case. How can I when nothing ever stays the same? One minute you're pointing to pictures of cows. The next minute you say moo. One minute you're examining a closed box of diapers, the next you've sprung them open from their plastic wrapping and are proceeding to create a lake of diapers on the living room floor and grinning as though you've done me an enormous favor. Two years in I still have moments where I stand and watch you and am afraid to pinch myself because I just might wake up from this beautiful dream I never want to leave. So no, so far none of this is getting old. I'm beginning to believe it never really will.
I planned to stop my monthly letters when you turned one. And then, I vowed when you turned two. But writing them brings me joy. And I hope one day, you will read these [maybe during the potentially brooding teenage years when you don't love me quite so openly and without reserve as you love today, though imagining you brooding makes me giggle considering the monkey that you currently are] and you will see in these letters just how loved you've always been, so I'm not sure if I'm ready to stop just yet either. I guess just as everything in parenting, I'll take it as it comes. Happy Twenty-Four months my love. I love you now. I always will.
|May 7, 2010|
|May 7, 2011|
|May 7, 2012|