We celebrated your second birthday with a big pile of toy motorcycles, as would be only proper for a little person so thoroughly obsessed. Cyclemos day in; Cyclemos day out. This morning you ran to the garage as it opened and yelled, "MAMA! Look! It's Beep Beep! I a hug the Beep Beep!"
You have a burning passion and the only cure is MORE motorcycles. (Which occasionally blends over into firetrucks, and even more occasionally into fire-bicycles, which sounds incredibly hazardous. What exactly does one do with a fire-bicycle? Does the fire-kitty ride the fire-bicycle? Inquiring minds want to know.)
Two years ago you made us a family instead of just a him and her and the good dog and the weird dog. We've watched you grow from floppy pile of bleh to KID with things to say and places to be. Really a remarkable amount of things to say, actually. You talk non-stop and have zero qualms about telling anyone who will listen, "NO. I DON'T LIKE IT." and, "WATCH OUT. GET ME THAT. I AM TIRED. LOOK AT THAT CUTE PUPPY. DO YOU HEAR THAT AIRPLANE?" ...sometimes all at the same time.
The talking, man. You do a lot of it. Do not misconstrue this as a complaint, quite the opposite. I think it is THE TITS (or more appropriately, THE MILKS). I can't get enough of your remarkable chatterybox. If I had a favorite part about this whole parenting jam so far it would be the talking. I knew it would be. Finally we get to see what's going on inside your brain!
The things going on in there? Hilarious. And bright. And sharp. And sassy.
Two years ago, a blink of an eye and a lifetime ago, I imagined what you might say to us, the interests you might have, the silly things you might ask. Flat out: it doesn't hold a candle to the reality of who you are. I never know what's going happen next. It's part of the charm of watching your personality develop– spontaneity incarnate. (And occasionally horrible, I mean come on you're two. Two is still... two. Sometimes you just scream banana over and over and roll on the ground.)
The days are long and good. You're short and happy and smart. You love a your predictable routine and you love to be at home with your things. (Much to dad's chagrin. You can blame me for that one, sorry kid. That's me to a tee.) You want dad to do everything with you.
You have a best friend whom you pretend to call on the telephone. You like dragons, and scary monster dragons, and fire dragon monsters, and your very special monkey shirt. You're fearlessly adventurous when you play, there's nothing at the playground you're not determined to conquer. You're thoughtful with your affection and dole out carefully calculated hugs at precise intervals so that I don't want to throttle you.
Each night at bedtime you declare to the room, "Come on, B! Come on, Dada! Bye Mama!" and you march yourself up the stairs to bed without a backwards glance. You curl up amongst your soft pile of stuffies and burrow deeply under your blanket and promptly fall asleep while the music plays in your perfect cave of safety.
Each night after bedtime I feel the overwhelming calling to sneak into your room and hold you. It's a siren song of longing pulling my soul magnetically towards your sleeping form. so precious. must hug. more time. I don't ever give in, if I went into your room you'd wake up and want to talk about motorcycles. So I just dream about it in my heart in secret. Your soft arms wrapped around my neck and your feathery breath on my cheek while our eyelashes touch, your body growing heavy with sleep forming into mine, so perfectly close. I'll be dreaming that same dream for the next 70 years or so. Keep it secret, keep it safe.
Happy birthday zen baby.
It's nice to meet you. I mean, the real wildly-independent crazy you.
It's everything I dreamed. But so much better.