People keep saying, “can you believe it? can you believe he’s 2 already?” Well, actually, yes. Yes, I can believe it. In all it’s snuggly glory and moments of tedium and frustration; in all this profound, tear-jerking, laughter-and-growth-inducing, constantly changing, great big dis-organized mess of a thing called parenting, why yes, it has felt like 2 years have gone by. In every way. It’s no surprise at all. I can believe how big he’s gotten. I can believe he can talk and climb and run and sing and make a giant mess of my cupboards and drawers. I can believe he’s saying “no” much more often than he says “yes.” I can believe it all — I’ve been watching closely. And as believable as it all is, it still seems like a miracle. Not the growth so much, but the existence of him. I know every parent feels this — how did I get so lucky? How did I get the very best kid? (it’s not fair to everyone else!) Knowing how very universal these feelings are is what makes the whole thing so funny…and heart-wrenching…and, even in it’s [daily] trying moments, doable.
We took our time celebrating this little 2-year-old over the weekend, in what my mother likes to call “Mary Mulliken style.” Indeed, Grandma was in town and we made a long weekend of it (hence my absence in this space on Monday). We filled our wakeful hours doing all the things little O most likes to do — running along the hiking trails near the beach, collecting rocks, and playing in the sand. We sang Happy Birthday about 100 times, and I do dare say, he gets it now. We began our birthday morning with our year-old traditions — a small wooden candle scene, a re-visiting off On the Day You Were Born, and a brief but significant few moments wearing the birthday crown. (My experience with my nephews leads me to believe that by the time he turns 3, he’ll be wearing that crown all day long.) We collaborated on some cupcakes, and drew out the celebrations so that we might have one more opportunity to sing. Oh, to hear a 2-year-old sing — it melts my heart. Rob and I wrote growth letters to tuck into his Time Capsule for a trip down memory lane when he turns 13, and over and over again, we read Orlis’ Shutterfly-made Book of Favorites (the result of a fabric-book plan gone haywire). My mother is right — he was duly celebrated. And why not?
He loved it. We loved it. I think we’ll keep him another year.