Two Years, Charlie

And just like that, you are two years old.

Two.  Years.  Old.

What a full two years it's been, my love.

From the moment you were born, I loved looking into your deep blue eyes and running my fingers through your midnight black hair.  Two years later, your eyes have turned to a shade of greenish grey, and your hair has lightened to a milk chocolate brown.   Still, you are beautiful beyond words and I catch myself staring at you often, taking you in.  Your smile and your spirit stretch to the edges of any room you inhabit, and reach to the corners of my heart.

Your light has been my armor these past two years.  Your laugh, the life raft that has pulled me out of some deep moments of grief and into the present.  

I want to capture the essence of you in these moments, in these days.  These days, filled with beauty and struggle and the ups and downs of toddlerhood.

You are spunky and highly spirited  - strong willed, as my mother says.  You know what you want, and you let us all know when you're not happy with how things are going.  I forget how in-the-moment toddlers are... you swing from ultimate joy to meltdown mode in seconds.  And then back to happy again.  It's hard to keep up, but we do our best.

You are profoundly kind for a person of your size and experience in this world.  You always say "bess you, Mommy" when I sneeze.  When Hazel coughs or trips, you instantly attune to her and say "you okay, Hazel?"  You bring your sister a drink or a toy at random moments without prompting, and you give the best kisses.

You play hard.  You rip books to shreds.  I call you my little "tornado," as you move your way through the house, destroying things along the way.  I tell myself that the upside to this means you will do things with gusto later in life, tackling fear and launching yourself into new things (just as you fearlessly launch yourself head first down the slide at the playground... deep breaths...).

I will be the cushion for you, my love.  Your soft spot to land on.... should you need one, due to all that launching.

I'd like to think that the second time around, we are a bit improved at this parenting gig.  But I know we make mistakes.  I apologize for the times in the past and the times to come when I lose my patience, or misunderstand, or just don't give as much as I should.  I know you will see all of me - all of my humanness.  I only hope to be aware enough and brave enough to let you know when I've messed up, and to tell you that I'm so sorry when I let you down.

You, just like your sister, are our teacher.  You lead us through the paths you stumble down, skinned knees and all.  We follow you, band-aids in hand and steeled hearts and and stand in awe of the tiny person you are becoming.

So tiny, but so huge.  You take up space and you light up the world.

Your blossoming relationship with your big sister fills me to the brim with happiness.  I know you will love each other forever, even when you hate each other.  You are a gift to her, as she is to you.  Just don't "borrow" her favorite shoes and then wear them to a muddy outdoor party and then sneak them back into her closet.  Trust me.  It won't go well.

I am so sad that you only got to know your sweet Papa for four short months before he became ill, and that you won't ever get to know his smile, his wonderful warm hugs, the depth of his love for you.  But I know you made him so happy in his final months, weeks, and days, and this will always warm my soul.  You are infinitely connected to him.  You will learn about him through our stories, our hugs, our pictures, and our own pieces of him that we all carry in our hearts.

Two years, my littlest love.  I can't wait to see where you take us in the next two, and the next two, and the next.  I wonder what this big world has in store for you.   Wherever you go, whenever you launch, whatever happens, we'll be right here.