Two

Dear Beanie,

I don't really know where to begin or how to put words to how I'm feeling. You turned 2 today. Two years ago today Daddy and I welcomed your slippery little self right in the very same room where you were first created. Your impatientness has never gone away, nor has your insistence to do things your own way, even if it's the hard way.

I joke with people that you're a shopping list of trouble; always getting into one thing or another, trying to help the grown-ups do big people stuff. Like the time you wanted to remove a toy motorcycle from its base so you dug through the junk drawer for a screwdriver and removed the screw all by yourself because you didn't want to wait for me to help you.

You still have a stubborn faux-hawk perched on the top of your head even though we've trimmed it and even buzzed your hair right down to the scalp.

You drag around your bankie, Meme, everywhere and announce to everyone he is, "My Meme!" Meme has been washed and sprayed and bleached. He's joined you in the sandbox, on the swings, in pillow forts and quiet cupboard hideouts. He's been known to wipe sticky peanut butter fingers and mop juice spills off the floor. He is your best friend but his tag is your favourite. In the beginning Meme had a tag that you would diligently pull to straighten before rubbing it gently on your nose. As the months passed, Meme's tag wound itself more tightly until one day you couldn't straighten it anymore. So you jammed the twisted end of Meme's tag up your nose. Now, while Meme is still precious, Meme's tag is what comforts you in your saddest moments.

You love to run and I love to watch your short little legs trotting so quickly from one room to the next.

When you smile your goofy smile and crinkle your nose, sigh, I just have to smile, too. You've learned it's a surefire way to get out of trouble.

I love how you're always the first one up in the morning and you quietly sneak into our room and grunt and huff and puff when trying to climb into our bed. And when you finally make it you squirm in between Daddy and I and pull the covers up over your head so we won't know you're there.

You say "mo-dee-dee" for motorcycle, and "hah-too-too" for helecopter. Shaun is Non-Non and Kyle is Tie-yo. I always giggle when you say you're going to Grampa and Grampa's house. Then when Shaun corrects you, you get so mad because, to you, you're saying it correctly.

You love getting tickled. If my hand brushes by your leg or arm, you'll pull up your shirt and say, "more tickles please, right here," pointing to your belly. I'll gently stroke your soft toddler skin, passing over the bruises on your legs from your latest adventures.

I love that you love oatmeal. And apples. And salad. And pizza. A boy after my own stomach.

I love listening to you after I've tucked you in as you sing to yourself and mumble rhymes that we chant and repeat to one another all day long. "...this little piggy had beef, one step, two steps, all the way home."

I love that writing this, thinking of you sleeping in your bed right now with your bum way up in the air and Meme wrapped around your neck, makes me cry. And not just little weeny tears. I'm crying big fat I Love You tears. The kind of tears I only reserve for My Boys. I know you were picked for us for a reason. To help me stop and remember why this job, being a Mum, is so wonderful.

You are my Beanie Butt. I love you so much my head spins. Thank you for choosing me to be your Mumma.