You are funny. And sweet. And so smart. So, very smart.
And strong. You’re big too, and so people think you’re older than you are, and sometimesthat gets messy because they expect you to be three or four. But you’re not.
You’re two, just.
When I call you my baby, sometimes you play along. Mostly, though, you say, “No, Mama. I no a baby. I a big boy.”
And you’re not. And it’s not funny to say so. But I know you mean well. I know that you want to be like the big kids you follow around. As big as Esmé and her friends who go faster, run farther, and can talk a mile a minute. I know you want to be able to go with them. To be in on their make believe, to climb trees and play hide and seek by the real rules, which you don’t quite get yet.
Right now you are still excited about garbage trucks and neighbourhood cats and balloons. Right now you tell knock knock jokes that make no sense whatsoever, and still, we laugh. Because they’re hilarious. Even if they’re not.
Right now you still prefer a cuddle. Thank goodness. But I know this will change.
You want to go outside. You want to follow the big kids as they careen up and down the courtyard. You want to be able to understand their games, and be welcomed to play too. It breaks your heart when they turn you away.
You’re getting there, Baby. Please, don’t hurry. Come, sit on my lap. Tell me about it in your lurching, emphatic way that happens when your thoughts come faster than your words, and you’re desperate to align the two. Go ahead and cry. I know it’s hard being the little one, even when your sister is your biggest fan.
Esmé adores you as much as you adore her. You two are truly best friends, and to be honest, I’m not sure who’s more protective of whom. You are strong and kind and loyal, and have an innate sense what’s right. Of what’s fair. And even though you’re younger, you are more solid in more ways than one.
We are so delighted to have you, my eleventh hour baby. My second, cherished miracle. My boy wonder. My luck, personified.
You were born with a twinkle in your eye that some people spend a lifetime cultivating. You are joyful, and easy-going.
You are a treasure. Golden, rare, precious. We love you, and we like you too. We think you’re lovely. Sometimes, Baba and I sit together at night and gush about how excellent you are, and how we are so amazed that we get to be your parents.
Every morning I wake up to see you beside me. Sometimes you’re still asleep, and I watch you, like parents do. And sometimes you’re awake first, and the first thing I see is your big, dark eyes, with that aforementioned glint and an enormous smile to go along with it.
It’s enough to make a Mama burst with love, which I do, often.