You are- unequivocally- two years old. While I'd long suspected this age (since- oh, you were nine or ten months old), the calendar finally backs me up. Two years going on fourteen, that's you.
In the color spectrum, you are neither grey nor pastel, but every single bold and definite shade. In the '80s, back when Day Glo was a very real concept, you would have been those short-lived (but much adored) neon Crayolas. Maybe a set of Sharpie pens.
When you love, it's euphoric and contagious. (Impossibly small stickers. Eggplant. Moments of unexpected independence. Daddy's arrival home each night.)
Sorrow is akin to the most epic Greek tragedy ever staged. (Babysitters. Closing credits. The tomato you grew that rotted before you could eat it. Daddy's departure each morning.)
Beyond promoting me to my favorite job ever, you've opened my eyes to things I had never before thought to do. Like, why did I never pair a wide-brimmed sunhat with fleecy footie pajamas? Or wear a cape to read [stacks and stacks and stacks] of books? When we dance each night (or rather, when you allow Suzy and me to join in on the nightly routine with your Dad), we all must dance vigorously, maintaining lyrics and energy- which, if you think about it, is the whole point. And how come, when walking down the street, I was never aware of how many sticks were on the ground at all times?
|I'm fine with the icing, thanks.|
|Dad, let go. I've Got This.|
Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by how much information you retain- not to mention the exact intonation and 'tude with which you parrot. Or how sweetly you play with your toys (Hi, how are you? Oh, I'm good. I'm good, too. Let's kiss? Sure! Kisskisskiss. Go to the beach? Sure!) or how frighteningly you give them Time Outs, shoved backwards between the crib and the wall, getting an earful about every thing they've done wrong. (Okay, that part breaks my heart and makes me feel like the Wicked Witch of the West. Also- how they can breathe like that?)
The night before I left for the hospital to have your little sister, I cried. A lot. Buckets and vats of Ugly Cry. I was so terrified that something would happen in surgery and I'd never again get to touch your hair as you slept (as I do every single night). Or that things would change. We'd never again get quiet moments on the couch as sun streamed in and we alternated between forehead kisses and your proclamations that we were both going "a 'work," me to my writing and you to lining bath toys on the windowsill for all the block to see.
And you know what? Things absolutely did change. But I've gotten to see you love on your sister, kissing her in the mornings before anything else. And the pride in your face as you help me care for her, doing Big Girl things (even as you revel in the avalanche of her baby toys and equipment).
We still have our time. And we always will. You will forever be my tea party partner, my master puzzler, my blanket tent snugglebug. We will have treats and long walks and dance parties and I will always let you put stickers on my face.
And even though I kinda need to continue combing down the mat of wild honey-colored (and flavored) curls each day, I promise to let you become the gal you're so rapidly becoming. But don't grow too fast, okay? We have a ton of adventures ahead and all the milkshakes in the world.
I love you, Bitsy.