You are two.
You are maddeningly, frustratingly two. You are almost three. You are newly defiant, willful, mercurial. You are sometimes reserved, sometimes friendly, sometimes just want to be left alone. You are a long, lean string bean, except for your hands, which are still thankfully, blessedly, pudgy baby hands.
You are a tough little scar on your chin. You are thank you for the rain, Puppy, clocks and socks. You are monkeys-in-your-ears when I say stop, you are bananas-bananas-bananas when your sister steals your toy, you are a forlorn puppy when you cry. You are always safe in my arms.
You are your daddy made over. You are jumping in the waves and making my heart stop. You are digging in the dirt, mowing the lawn, trimming the trees, blowing the leaves, washing the car, playing in the sand, building a skyscraper. You are the most verbal two-year-old I have ever met. You are whip smart. You are a scary prospect at sixteen.
You are every wheel that ever turned, every engine that ever growled, every horn that ever honked. You are the bus, the digger, the train, the police car, the fire truck. You are still in love with your baby elephant, Horton-nee-Walter, who plays music from his tail.
You are trying to be big like your daddy. You are eat your healthy growing foods, sleep so you can be big and strong. You are still little and secretly, quietly, we are all thankful for that.
You are popping out of bed every five minutes at nap time, you are excited to be a big boy in a big boy bed, you are the gate at your door that brings tears to my eyes, you are the clock that turns green when it’s time to get up. You are never sleepy, except when you are. You are on, on, on, until you are off. And then you are on again.
You are whispered conversations when I sing to you at bedtime. You are “This is nice. This is good, Mommy” when I snuggle you. You are one more book, some few more songs, one more drink of milk. You are delicious.
You are your Mimi’s, your Granpa’s, your Memere’s, your Pepere’s, your aunts’ and uncles’ and cousins’. You are Daddy’s and you are Hayden’s. You are your own boy. You are growing up to be a fine boy. You are, although I can’t think about it very often, going to be a wonderful man.
You are turning the car around and driving back to the beach to retrieve Puppy from the closet in which you were playing. You are tears welling in my eyes on the way back down the sandy stairs, because you are puppy, and he is you, and you are unashamedly, incontrovertibly mine.