Friday, February 21, 2014

Two years in review

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

One day, somewhere in between the hustle and bustle of the holidays, visiting relatives, a failed house purchase, moving, and the world's worst and most persistent case of strep throat, I woke up with a two year old. You're two. You proudly exclaim, "I'm a big kid." I feel proud, too.

I have a lot to be proud of, Sweet Bee. First and foremost, we met our nursing goal. When you were born I had a severe hemorrhage and I didn't get to hold you right away. You were in the same room, and I heard you and spoke to you, but your first moments weren't spent on my chest, skin to skin. They were spent in a warmer with strangers. I never felt that immediate sense of giving birth, the 'I did it' moment.

The first time I held you, you were 30 minutes old, and clean. And it wasn't the way I'd pictured our first meeting. But the experience that didn't happen after your birth happened the first time you latched onto my breast. The connection. The powerful feeling of knowing, 'I did it.' My 'I did it.' 

You are becoming more and more independent with each day, with each year! I know that soon you aren't going to seek out this comfort anymore. There are times that you fall and would rather have a kiss. Times you'd rather listen to a story than fall asleep with a cuddle. Times when you're simply too busy exploring the world. I know this is coming to an end, and I'll always treasure this closeness we've shared.

I'm proud of your curiosity. Your brave, inquisitive nature. Your capacity to explore, fully, and without fear. Your careful examination of objects you find.

I'm proud of your empathy. One day this year, while nursing you to sleep, I was watching a documentary about hunger and poverty in America. I wasn't aware that you were awake or alert enough to take any of it in, but to my surprise, when you heard a young boy say he was hungry, you looked up at me and said, "we have to take him something to eat." These moments are the foundation, the building blocks of an empathetic and caring nature.

I'm proud, perhaps most of all, of your warmth. The way you approach every day with such an innocent longing and eagerness. The way you brighten people's day, anyone you come into contact with. You are something very important, and I know your warmth will continue to impact everyone around you as you grow.

You love to read, you love to sing, you love to pretend. You love animals. You love people. You love music. You love your dog. You love to dance. You love to play. You love, fully, and without question or judgement. You really love

For Christmas this year you received a bright, red tricycle and a small piano to play. You went to sleep on Christmas Eve in pink pajamas, full of excitement. You woke up in the morning wiping your sleepy eyes and couldn't wait to try out your new gifts. It was still early and dark outside, and we went for a ride to look at Christmas lights. It was magical. 

On New Years Eve I took you to see fireworks. You fell asleep on the way and I took you out when we arrived at the river overlooking downtown. You said, "Mom, you hear that?" I said yes. You said, "Mom, you see that?" I said yes. You said, "It's beautiful." I said, "Happy birthday, sweet girl."

It's amazing how much you've grown this year, and how far we've come. As mothers, I think we expect to teach you so much about the world, and of course we do. The most humbling part, though, is how much we learn. 

You are two now, sweet bee. And you are incredible. 

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