Admittedly, you're not really a baby anymore. Even your friend Grace has taken to calling you "Toddler Johnny" instead of "Baby Johnny", but I am not really a fan. In my heart, you are the baby. You are my baby, my only baby. I'd like you to stay a baby as long as humanly possible, and then a little longer please.
Today is your second birthday. You are two. This time, two years ago, I was complaining that my doctor was never coming back and would someone please give me some drugs, thankyouverymuch.
Last weekend we had your second celebration of the second birthday, this one with just the grandparents, and I don't think I've quite ever seen you so happy. Your first party, earlier this month, the blowout with all your friends, was ridiculously cool, but you were getting sick, as your 103 temperature proved the next day, and you weren't really yourself. As in, you were awake for all of two hours and mostly occupied yourself by playing with the ice in the cooler instead of your friends.
But this second party, it really knocked your socks off. Once, as you looked around the room over a plateful of green Brobee cake, it occured to you that it really was a marvel, all of these grandparents in one room. You looked at Grandpa Earl, and then at Grandpa Al, and "TWO GRANDPA'S!" you exclaimed, blissed completely out.
Yes, you have learned to count. At least to two. And then five, and nine. Sometimes you make it to three, but four, six, seven, and eight can eat a bag of rocks for all you care. One, two, three, five, and nine. Those guys are your boyz.
Also, you know your colors. We like to amaze and impress strangers and grandparents by holding up a crayon and letting you exclaim that it is "BOO!" and "LELLOW" and "GREE!" Also, we sometimes amaze them with your mad somersaulting skillz, and then I go ahead and tell them you're five, and all of it seems less impressive except your small stature for your age. And then you and I just laugh and laugh.
Your world revolves around Dada, Mama, "Yabba" and the gang, and hot dogs. If you were in the movie "The Jerk" you'd leave the house with your pants around your ankles, saying "all I need is this Yabba DVD, this hot dog, and maybe this Elmo Doll. That's it. That's all I need." And truly, it is. And now maybe the toy flashlight that Grammy gave you for your birthday. You do enjoy the heck out of flipping a switch.
I could go on for days about how much we love you and how delighted we are with your every word, move and smile. We dissolve into a puddle of goo with every hug, and get all goofy when we watch you toddle down the hall for bedtime as we follow behind you. You love to go "night night" most of the time, and you hug both Elmo and The Green Monkey tight, roll over, and that is the last we hear from you. Like your father, you really enjoy being in bed.
Every day you learn a new thing, show off a new skill, and, somehow, get a little cuter. It seems impossible, but you just keep doing it.
Son, I can't thank you enough. Happy birthday, you've made our lives something we never even allowed ourselves to dream of before. We'll never be able to show you enough gratitude for the last two years, let alone the years to come.
Forever,
Mama
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