thelongwells.com

Dear Oliver,

Hey, dude! It's your birthday. You do not know what that means, and I think if you did know, you still wouldn't care. Every time I try to get you to say "2!!" when I ask how old you are, you grin at me with this tiny little smirk that I have translated to mean, "I think you're telling me something special is happening and I'm the center of it but I get very suspicious when you tell me what to say, woman, so I will make a cute face to distract you."

Oli, something special is happening and you are the center of it. It makes my head spin to think that two years ago, at this very moment, I still would not hold you in my arms for the first time for another hour. And yet. Here we are, and you are not even a baby anymore. I think I am mourning your infancy today, as much as I am celebrating your official little-kid-hood. 

But, it's not about me. It's about you. And, boy. You are wonderful. Lately you have been throwing these little tantrums, imitating the way Jack does his tantrums, and your nature is so sweet it's like you can't even really get behind the tantrum. You can't sell it baby, and I know it's because you are just tender and sweet, through and through. So when you stomp your foot and tell me "No! No! Mama!" we both know that your signature grin is about half a second from breaking through to the surface. I guess is my point is that even your worst, crankiest moments are only about a millimeter from being wonderful, too.

I love you, Oliver. But I know you know that. And even though you won't let me teach you how to say "I love you," I know you do love. You love everyone. And I'm so proud of you already and you're only two tiny years old!! I can't wait to see what you grin at next.

Love,

Mama