a little love note on your 737th day.

Dear Sam,

Last Monday you turned two years old.

(Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in.)

And I must say that, up until that day, you still seemed like my little baby boy. You would pad around our kitchen in your footie pajamas, face buried in your Gator blankie, hanging on to the back of my legs, and I have to admit, I'd look at you throughout the day and wish that you would stay that way forever. I wanted you to stay sweet and soft and, well, my baby. And I couldn't really comprehend a day when you wouldn't be just that.

But, in the span of just seven days, you already seem like less of a baby and more of a little boy to me. In one short week, you've started to spew out real words ("two," "cool," "yo gabba gabba" -- shocker); you sit up at the table and eat full-on meals by yourself; you've mastered the art of the iPad and iPhone -- hell, you even hold court with your 76,438 stuffed animals that you insist on keeping in your crib at all times. (OCD, party of one -- your table is now available.) I mean, I don't know what you guys are talking about in there, but it all sounds very serious and important.

Anyway, I guess what I'm getting at is, you seem to be moving into a different stage of life right before my very eyes. A smart stage. A brave stage. A capable stage. An independent stage. A stage where you don't need me or need to be with me, your mom, every second of the day. (Gulpity, gulp, gulp.) But see, the unfortunate part of this scenario is that no one really asked me what I was ready for in this situation. And, as it turns out, I'm not really prepared for any of it. In fact, I'm downright unprepared. And all of this is really strange because I'm usually so cool, calm and collected about anything having to do with my children, right?!? Right?!? (Seriously friends, I need professional help.)

But today, after a week of this new "Mom -- seriously, back it up, crazy lady!" routine, I decided to stop hovering and hopefully (please dear god, hopefully) you would come to me. And, sure enough, you did. For just a few minutes, smack in the middle of the afternoon, you crawled into bed with just me and proceeded to tell me a little story. Sure, sure -- there was a little bit of a language barrier to deal with, but we stayed there for what seemed like forever ... heads on the same pillow ... laughing and talking about who knows what. I like to think you were telling me a sweet little tale about a little ginger-headed boy who spent his days with his beautiful, funny and not-the-least-bit-embarrassing mother, eating Costco hot dogs and taking long strolls around the neighborhood, but for all I know you could've been filling me in on the details of your latest top-secret crib meeting. Apparently, a lot goes on behind those bars. Who knew?!?

Anyway Bugs, it doesn't really matter what you were telling me about. For a second, you slowed down ... put away your books and puzzles and trucks ... saw that your sister was nowhere in sight (hallelujah!) ... and spent a little time with just me.

You'll never remember any of these moments, but I always will, my sweet boy.

My sweet baby.

My Sam.

I love you,


Newly Nalevanko said...

Oh sar, release the waterworks! I'm a mess after this beautiful post.

Si Si said...

I think I know what he was telling you...... "You are awesome mommy!! Your my mom!! I LOVE you....Sam, your ginger headed sidekick forever......"

Janet Scott said...

Now that he's two he's so funny and clever.
I hope he stays two forever and ever.......