And now you are two. How did that happen? No, seriously, how? I can’t get my head around it, I swear you were just born except that was August 14, 2007 and somehow it now happens to be August 14, 2009 (I KNOW IT’S NOT, BUT CLOSE ENOUGH)(We were on holiday, remember?  At Grammy and Grandad’s cabin?  And now we are home and I have internet access and so, now, late).

Impossible that two years have passed. Maybe I have a brain tumour that causes strange stop-starts and time-lapses and fast-forwards. I don’t know. But I do remember every single detail of the day leading up to your birth about how I really really wanted you to be born before Grammy left for Australia and Dr. B. left for England — both leaving on the same day, deserting us, really, and you weren’t quite due yet but I was going to have you, so help me (and you). So I said I was having terrible cramps, which I wasn’t really, maybe some twinges, but I really wanted to be, and they admitted me and lo I was dilated, so that was lucky that my mostly made up “labor pains” were actual real labor pains only I didn’t quite know it. My doctor agreed to break my water such that it would speed up the labor that I’d made up, which turned out to be real, and boy did she ever speed it up. Good thing, too, because Grammy really wanted to meet you before she left town. So next thing I knew, there you were and I was still screaming for an epidural when the doctor said, “She’s already out, it’s TOO LATE. Now stop that screaming.” I screamed a bunch more just for good measure because I must tell you that it hurt a great deal when you were born, but it was worth it, totally, every second of it.  Then both Grammy and the doctor were like, “GOTTA GO!”  But, worth it.   It was.   Well, maybe except the part where all my lady bits are now falling out, but that’s another story and entirely not your fault. You didn’t ask to have a bean the size of a basketball, at least I don’t think you did. If you DID, that’s not very nice now, is it?

Anyway, look at you! So cute. But you didn’t stay like this for more than ten seconds, not that you didn’t stay cute, but you just kept growing up so FAST. I’m going to keep saying that again and again because it’s like when it’s hot outside and it’s all anyone can talk about, like omigod, it’s so HOT. I say that about you, except I say, OMIGOD SHE’S SO BIG. It’s confounding.   And you are big.   You weren’t big when you were born but you are now three feet tall.    THREE FEET.   That’s ridiculous.   I hope you aspire to basketball or modelling or at least that being very very tall makes you happy and doesn’t create in you a need to constantly slouch, like I do.   Seriously, don’t do that.   Stand up straight.   Be tall!  Be happy.   Not that you need ME to tell YOU to be happy.   You were born that way.

I swear you came out smiling, and look, you even smiled in your sleep. I have never been so lucky as to even meet a human who is as happy as you are. You are ridiculously, comically, joyously happy so often that I think maybe you aren’t even quite real, perhaps you are some sort of alien experiment gone awry because for reals, NO ONE is this happy.

Well, no one is this happy, except for YOU.

And I hope you always are.

Say “Cheese!”

Much like with your brother, I forgot to do a baby book.   Well, I didn’t forget, per se, I just would rather spend my time lying on the floor pretending to eat your toes.  And I didn’t even do THAT as much as I wanted to.   Honestly the first year of your life was a blur. I’m astonished at everything you learned how to do because I swear you must have taught yourself while I painted and wrote and rushed around madly like a headless chicken from one thing I frantically had to finish to the next thing I frantically had to finish. When you calmly wandered over to the babysitter the other day and counted slowly and precisely from one to ten, it was like a miracle. I did not teach you that. WHERE did you learn it? I think maybe The Bun teaches you things when I’m not looking. He must do. And you — you are smart like a whip. I bet it won’t be long until you’re teaching him a thing or two. And me, for that matter. Actually, you’ve already taught me a great deal. Mostly about patience — not that you have any yet, but you will — and about joy. You are such a SMOOCH. I love you so much. I’m sorry your letter was late and actually more pictures than words, but pictures are worth a thousand words, so really this is almost an entire novel. And better late than never, right?

I love you my Birdy, my little Bean.

Mummy

I can’t believe you are four years old. I meant to write you a letter every month from the moment you were born, a record of our life together (or my perspective of our life together) but then damn it if I didn’t just get so BUSY after you came along. How did that happen? Go figure.

I’m sorry. I didn’t even do a baby book. And you’re my first! Most people seem to do one for their first and then slack off after that. What can I tell you? I’m ahead of the curve.

When you were born, my back was so bad that I was already in the hospital because I could not move enough in any direction to drag my heft to the bathroom to pee. I don’t know if you know much about pregnant women in their last month of pregnancy but I’m telling you, it’s a lot about the peeing. For the rest of time, we will celebrate your birthday in addition to April 2, The Day That Mummy’s Bum Got Stuck Between the Stretcher and The Kitchen Floor and She Screamed Until The Paramedics Finished Their “Rest” and Picked Her Up Again. Anyway, even though the nurses in the hospital mocked my plight and said I wasn’t in labour, as it turns out I was. No one could have predicted that when I said, “When I give birth, I want to be surrounded by a team of medical professionals!” that this would come true in such a dramatic fashion. Can’t ultrasounds predict when heads are too big to emerge? Daddy is still waking up in a cold sweat when he recalls how the suction cup accidentally disconnected from your head, spattering the room with… who knows what? STUFF. Even the janitor sauntering in half-way through the process to change the clocks forward an hour did nothing to detract from the moment you were finally wrenched free and placed on my chest. That’s the moment I will remember forever. Well, I’ll remember all that other stuff, too, especially now that I’ve written it down. But it was for sure the high point.

We have had so much fun, you and me. I had no idea it would be like this. Actually, I thought there would be more breaks. You know, like naps. But you thumbed your nose at those pretty early in the game. I really really wish you’d learn to sleep through the night on your own, but if I’m being perfectly honest, I kind of love falling asleep with you in your big bed. You are so warm and darn cuddly. I can’t help it. I know one day you’ll be an ornery teenager and I doubt I’ll want to cuddle with you then, and I’m certain you won’t allow it. But I’ll miss this part, the cuddly part. Even the poop jokes.

Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Poop.
Poop who?
Poop poopy head up your nose in your PANTS.

I mean, that’s comedy gold. GOLD. If you’d thought of it, I’m sure Poop would have been your first word. I’m pretty sure it was Mama though. I didn’t write it down at the time, so I can make it up. One of the first ten was definitely “Clifford”. I thought that was pretty cool. Two syllables! Before you learned more obvious words, like “Milk!” I do remember that you took your first steps on June 20, 2006. I don’t know why I remember that date as I forget virtually every other date of importance, but I do. Up until that time, you just sat. You didn’t even scoot. You never crawled. It was like you were pretty happy to observe for the first fourteen months and then your big brother called you from the end of the hallway and you just got up and went. Nice style, kiddo.

How you went from this:

to this:

to this:

to THIS:

to now:

How did that happen? It’s a total cliche, but is it ever true: It goes by so fast. Now you are wanting to learn to read NOW so you don’t have to wait for me to read you stories. You are so tall, it’s almost comical. And so full of all your adult worries, that sometimes it’s like you pull my heart out and whap it around for a while before you put it back. I don’t want you to worry about who will die first and when. I want you to play. Laugh. Love. And enjoy every minute of this crazy ride.

I’ll try to write more often. It’s hard to do four years in one post. I’m leaving out most of the good stuff, but you and I know what it is. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got a bunch of pictures, too.

Huggle buggle,

Mummy.

* concept stolen from Dooce.