Today you are two. And what everyone always says is absolutely true – it’s gone so amazingly fast; I can’t believe it’s been two years since I held you in my arms for the first time. Then again, you’re so grown up that I often forget you’re just barely two. Just the other day you yelled “Cut it out!!” at George when he was getting into your toys and I nearly fell over. Can you really be saying things like that already?
Who you are today: a little peanut with an Uma-Thurman-in-Pulp-Fiction hairdo. A girl who adores playing in mud and thinks fried eggs are about heaven. A child who has recently decided that bread crusts are entirely unacceptable for no known reason, like the cucumbers you’ve always hollowed out instead of eating whole. A singer and dancer who loves Madonna and Raffi and Jack Johnson and thinks “the Wheels on the Bus” is the best song ever. A Curious George junkie. Someone who can’t have food without generously offering it to everyone around. A sprite with springs in her shoes. A bookworm. A munchkin who loves deeply – you go through your photo album every day and tell me how much you love me, Daddy, Nannie, Grandma, Grandpa, Brett, Mindy, Great Nannie and Pa, Kristi, Tara, Jennaya, and so on and so on. A gal who gives kisses with reckless abandon. One who no longer presses her nose to mine to fall asleep, but instead makes me face the other way so you can surrender to sleep in privacy. A lover of cats – Georgie and Phoebe especially. My world and the apple of my eye.
Oh how I adore you, little one. You are my favorite sidekick and helper – whether it’s stirring the cake batter or folding the laundry or having a coffee klatsch, you’re always beside me and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love that you inspect the garden with me daily, checking each tomato and cucumber. You take it so seriously, like a commission you must fulfill or the whole thing will go to pot. And maybe it would.
There is nothing like coming home to you, when you dance and hop and cheer and come over for great big hugs. Like how you talk on the phone so animatedly, with gestures and breathless sighs and clucks. Like how you would rather do everything with me, or Daddy, or whoever you love that’s nearby – you seem to derive no pleasure from things unless they’re shared. I admire you, my little stinkbug. And I’m so so proud.
Today you didn’t feel very well and the cranky pants were definitely donned… you fell asleep at the unheard of hour of 9 rather than 11 or so. And so I sit here, musing on you and the stroke of luck that gave you to me those two years ago. I swore you’d better be worth those nine miserable months I spent, sick and cranky and on a hormone cocktail bender…
…and the truth is, you’re worth every bit, and then some.
I love you, little stinker. I’m so glad you’re mine.