You are two years old. You have been two years old for almost a month but I’ve been struggling to say much more because there are not enough words to describe how we got from there to here. The day that you were born floats in my mind like someone else’s memory. I remember the first time that I visited you in the NICU and a nurse congratulated me. It felt so odd, as though if I were to say thank you it would mean that I was happy you arrived early. I’m still not happy you chose to make your mark in August rather than November, but I am the happiest woman in the world because you are mine. You are sour and sweet and stubborn and determined and happy and loving. You’ve made me slow down and pay attention to the small milestones—the first time you turned your head, your first full cackle of a laugh, and the first time I found your hand wrapped securely around a lock of Jocelyn’s hair (pulling like it was a game of tug-o-war). You are learning your words and you love to go through the list of family members whose photos adorn the wall. Mommy! Daddy! Jojo! Nana! And when I ask you who you are you say, “Ada.” It melts my heart.
You still love your Daddy, but you have a new found love for Mommy, which I appreciate most of the time. The fact that this stems from you not wanting me to hold Jocelyn or push her in the stroller is not lost on me. I know what you’re doing. When you are called and confronted with bad behavior—usually consisting of you hitting or biting your sister—you cock your head to the side, bat your eyes and say, “No!” Your cuteness will get you far in life but please remember to only use it for good.
I’m looking forward to this next year, when your gibberish transforms into sentences and I learn why you like to hold tutus but not wear them and whether you will play soccer just to be like your sister or if you’ll decide that you’d rather eat all the oranges on the sidelines. Either way, I’ll cheer you on.
I love you baby girl.