Today you are TWO years old. Two!
You are delightful, funny, silly, and I’m a little afraid that you’re already smarter than me and your daddy.
You have the sweetest spirit. It has been evident since you were a tiny baby, and I see it even more now. It’s your birth mother’s sweetness; I like to imagine she passed it to you in a kiss as she said the hardest goodbye.
People like to say that two isn’t terrible, but terrific, and so far I have to agree.
Right now you love all things construction. A new road was put into our neighborhood this fall, and you fell hard for those big machines. We would walk down there nightly to look at the “digga” and the work they were doing.
Last month they started building a house in the lot next door, so we often hear the “beep beep beep” of machines, and you love to mimic them.
Like I said, it’s a real love affair.
Your Grandpa Merrill sent you this riding (pedal power) CAT for your birthday, and it was just a little tiny bit of a hit.
You are talkative and inquisitive and joyful. You love to say “hi,” and you say it loudly and with gusto. “HI!” (And it’s a two-syllable word in your vocabulary, which I love.)
Like most kids your age, you are boundless energy. You will run from one end of the house to the other (and man do I love to see a toddler run), and you especially like to chase Scout around the main floor. You aren’t always as gentle with her as you should be, but she is patient with you.
Your grandmother says that you and Eller are like puppies they way you like to lay all over one another. He will allow you to come and sit on him and he doesn’t even break snore.
(We like to joke: remember when we had to keep the dogs away from the baby? Now we have to keep the baby away from the dogs.)
But you’re not really a baby anymore. You’re a big boy, and soon to be a big brother. I can already tell you’re going to be one of the best.
I don’t know how to explain to you how much we love you without tipping sappy, so I’m not going to try to avoid it. You have changed me so much, Harry. I’m more patient. More compassionate. More empathetic. It would be a lie to say that I love every minute of every day; sometimes you whine. Sometimes you look right at me with a gleam in your eye and do exactly what you know you’re not supposed to do (stand up on your chair, throw your fork, try to pull Scout’s tail), and while I’m exasperated by it, I also have to try not to laugh. But there is never a moment, not even a second, when I don’t love being your mother.
Never, ever forget that. When you are an old man and you look back on the road you traveled, please please remember that you were loved every single second. First by the woman who gave you life, and then by the one who was given you.