Today you are two years old. I could easily say that your birthday two years ago, in spite of all the pain and the exhaustion and the stitches, was by far the best day of my life. It certainly was up until that point. But saying that would be unfair to all the days I’ve had with you since – these days which are the best days I know I’ll ever have. I haven’t been happier in my whole life – and given what an obnoxiously happy person I am – that’s saying a lot. So when you’re thirty years old and reading this, I hope you’ll understand why I call so often, why I beg to baby sit your children and why your wife is probably already sick of me – it’s because you’ll always be my baby (unless you don’t give me any grandchildren and then you can FORGET ABOUT IT).
A few nights ago your Father sat in his big leather chair and remarked that it used to be just us – just him and me. And then you were born and for a little while, it was just him and me and this little blob of adorable baby. But now it’s completely different. When we go to a restaurant, we get a table for THREE. It’s obvious, I know, but it didn’t really occur to us until recently that we're an actual FAMILY now. You are a real person with your own real ideas and opinions. You even take up valuable real estate in our tiny little condo.
And I am equally sad and proud about your progress. On the one hand, you’re really not my baby anymore, a fact I can hardly bear to write, much less actually admit. But on the other hand, you amaze me every day with your bustling development. I don’t know very many two year olds who have complete conversations with their parents - conversations that involve logic, persuasion, feelings and frankly, a butt-ton of amazing vocabulary. Last night your finger was accidentally jammed between two grocery carts while we were shopping for your birthday supplies at Costco. When you started shrieking in pain, your father offered you an ice cream cone and you said “Ice cream help me feel better, Mommy.” And you were right! (It also killed me when I handed you my Costco card and you turned it over, saw my picture on the back, kissed it and said “I love my Mommy!”)
I never want to forget what you are like as a two year old:
- You have a total Mommy-hair fetish. No snuggle is complete without a handful of my giant fro.
- You hide in the corner of the living room when you poop. If I ask you if you’re pooping, you ALWAYS answer no – even if your face is beet red and you’re actively pushing. You also hide in the bushes out in front of our complex to poop as soon as we let you outside. This might be funny now, but your pooping-in-the-corner days are numbered.
- You also think poop is funny. (Farts are funny too.) And your Father and I couldn't agree more. Every time I sit down with a pen and paper, you ask me to draw “turds” and I do so because that is about the extent of my artistic talent. Please don't ever ask me to draw bulldozers.
- You imitate all the bad words I say accidentally in front of you. Words I won’t even repeat here.
- You have a love/hate relationship with the dog. You love to chase him around and play keep away with his ball, but god forbid he touches your food! The other day I accidentally stepped on Harry’s tail and when he yelped, you told me “Mommy. Be nice to Harry. Harry loves you.”
- You are still insanely obsessed with watching Caillou on PBS. You’ve seen every episode AT LEAST five times, but you never tire of them. You’re also already accustomed to Tivo – the idea of a show not being on right now is completely foreign to you.
- You love Mac ‘n Cheese and would eat pasta for every meal if I let you. Such a good little Italian boy. You also like to help daddy make an egg for you, although it’s the making of the egg you like, not so much the eating of it.
- You wake up from your nap every afternoon in need of a major snuggle. Your hair is all wet and curly (from your amazingly profuse sweating) and you are CRANKY, but I love having that time with you on my lap.
- On the mornings when your Dad isn’t in a rush to get to the office, you come lay with us in bed. You pull Daddy’s finger and tell him his farts are “gross” and then you beg to play “FO FUM”. You hide under the covers and Daddy tries to find you while chanting “Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell an Alexanderum? Where is he?” (When mommy plays, she prefers “I smell Alexander’s BUM?”) Nothing makes you laugh harder.
- When asked what kind of a sandwich you want, you always reply “mustard and mayo”.
- You constantly ask me to “Build a choo-track Mommy!” You also love to line up your matchbox cars and then have me count them – although we can usually only round up about 20 of them at a time, even though you probably have more like 40 of them. You also love all things construction and we spend our time in the car searching for bulldozers in action.
I’m starting to feel guilty for not thinking up more things to say. But I write about you all the time, to the point where it’s going to take you literally YEARS to read all of the excessive bragging I’ve done. So I’ll stop now. We can't wait for your party on Saturday and neither can you. Your pinata and the donuts you'll finally get to eat for breakfast are about all you can talk about. Admittedly I'm a bit freaked out that you're going to have giant tantrums and refuse to share the pinata bat with your friends, but I guess that's to be expected with you being two and all. But even on your worst days, no one could ever make me happier.