Dear Superbaby,
Today is your 2nd birthday. I'll spare you any comments on how the time has flown, and how you can't possibly be a big grown-up boy when fifteen minutes ago you were still a baby. You've heard all that before. I guess we have to stop calling you Superbaby, though. So--Bean it is.
Now that we got that settled, let's talk about your Insane Amount of Awesome. Because you are among the most hilarious, kick-ass, fabulous, genuine people I know. (Yes, that's you on the right in that photo down there, challenging the whole world to a duel with your brothers by your side--my money is TOTALLY on you guys.)
You're pretty sure you can already do everything--even tie your own shoes. God forbid someone mention "the baby"--you've never heard of any such person thankyouverymuch. Your new refrain is: "NO. I WILL DO IT." No, I can't help you with your spoon. No, you don't want me to find your shoes. No, you don't want me to help you get that Lego guy's head on. You will do it. And you do.
A few weeks ago, I was emptying the dishwasher and you decided to "help." I turned around to put a plate in the cupboard, and when I turned back you were holding a steak knife. Then you told me, cheerfully, "knife cut baby!" In that moment I wasn't sure whether to praise you or laugh or chastize you or scream. I mean, COME ON. It's like you're a Junior Safety Officer or something. I KNOW knives cut babies, which is why you're not allowed to help unload the dishwasher. But dude, get this: you've been listening to me! That, ultimately, is scarier than the fact that you had your chubby little fingers wrapped around the handle of a steak knife.
You no longer let me pick out your clothes and you get really pissed off if I suggest you might like to wear, say, a jacket or, you know, socks. (Nevermind that it's 26 degrees outside, MOTHER. Can't you see I have a vision?) On Thursday, as we were headed out the door to art class, you insisted that you must change your clothes. Your outfit consisted of: a striped t-shirt, blue plaid golf pants, striped socks and your beloved Elmo shoes. Best. outfit. ever.
The best thing about you, though, is how much you love and admire your brothers. You think they are the coolest, hippest, most radical people you've ever met, and you want nothing more than to do exactly what they're doing. All the time. If they're wearing blue shirts and standing on their head, then so are you--no questions asked. When they aren't home, you're a little lost--what does one play by oneself? You greet them with hugs and kisses and con them into sharing their candy and toys. You make them laugh and you boss them around (and they listen to you! you're going to be so rotten) and you steal their Gator jerseys when they aren't looking. They've taught you the robot, knock-knock jokes and to make an announcement when you've just ripped a big one and you need some applause.
Which brings me to your sense of humor, which is fairly well developed, I think. When I say, "What's your name?" You say, "Jack Aengus!" or "Finn!" or "Batman!" and even occasionally "Betsy!" But never Skylar. If I say, "Are you poopy?" You say, "No, Daddy's poopy!" All of the name-changing and blame-shifting is accompanied by raucous laughter. You pulled off a doozy of a trick at the yarn store the other day, when you offered to share your Cheerios with Aunt Sharon, pretending to slip her one and then eating it in front of her. You shrugged and said, "I ate it!" All that was missing was a bow from you, my little showman.
I think I'd best keep my eye on you.
Anyway, all this is just to say that I am the luckiest mama in the world to have such a little boy to call my own. I'm not much for blogging these days, but I promise I'll always write you an annual birthday letter, so we can see how far we've come. May this coming year be the best one yet.
All my love,
Mommy
P.S. You should really go check out the picture of you Aunt Jacqui put on her blog this morning. You're future girlfriend is gonna love that one.
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