Today you turned two. I can’t believe it’s been that long since you arrived on the scene. You were hard to get along with at first. All you did was scream. For months. Granted, if I spent a few months only pooping every five days, I’d probably be pretty cranky, too. But, lordy, it was rough beginning.
But once you started smiling, you haven’t looked back.
You’re far more independent than Neko ever was. Or maybe in a different way. We often said we could have dropped Neko in the middle of New York City, and she would have been fine, but she would have found about six people to keep her company as she made her way. But you’re just fine on your own. I often see you over in a corner, happily bopping your head to some internal tune, humming along as you play.
Your smile is contagious. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve mastered the art of furrowing your brow when things aren’t going your way, but when you’re having a great time, people seem to want to smile along with you. You have this way of delighting in just being.
I think you’ve got your father’s music gene. You love to watch music videos on our laptops, particularly “Year of the Rat” and “Nature Anthem.” We hear you singing the alphabet and the Bob the Builder theme over the monitor as you’re trying to fall asleep. When we’re in the car, you demand to hear “Yellow” by Coldplay. We started playing it for you because yellow is your favorite color, but I think you like it now for other reasons. It only takes a few bars for you to recognize it, and then a huge smile crosses your face.
You, are, however, running headlong into two. You’ve discovered you don’t have to do everything we say, and are testing every limit. You run away from us, and think it’s a hilarious game. You climb over furniture, even though you know you aren’t supposed to. And the throwing, oh, the throwing. You’re throwing everything. 15 years from now I will be happy to point out the dents on the floor that are courtesy of your right hook.
Incidently, I’m not really sure where this recessive sports gene came from, but it’s terrifying. Your obsession with balls seems to know no boundaries. You’ll notice your cupcakes aren’t perhaps the best work I’ve ever done but, dude, you were born into a family of sports illiterates. I had to Google “basketball” just so I knew how all those lines went.
I know you don’t really understand this whole birthday thing. You seem delighted that everyone keeps giving you extra attention, and the whole day you were doing this exuberant dance, laughing and bouncing up to the tips of your toes the way only limber two-year-old feet can do. You don’t seem to mind that Neko ran off with your presents, and you were overjoyed when we let you eat the frosting off of ten cupcakes.
When I’m dealing with your sisters, it feels like familiar turf. I’m comfortable in these girl shoes. But you’re a whole new mystery, one that I’m both perplexed and intrigued by. You can be all boyboyboy rough and tumble, but then come over, put your head on my shoulder and pat me gently on the back. You loved Ellery from the start, without a second thought. You place your cheek on hers as you whisper “Ewery”. You are kind and full of empathy, keenly tuned into other people. I hope that, when you’re grown, all those things will still be firmly rooted to your soul.
Happy birthday, little man.
