You are two years old today. I can hardly believe it. Right now you are asleep in your own room, in a bed shaped like a fire truck. In the morning, you’ll walk to your door and start calling my name to come and get you. I don’t know how we got here so fast. I’m sure I will say this every year on this special day, your birthday. But it’s the truth.
I have learned so many things these past two years: how to love deeper than I knew possible, how to give when I don’t have anything left, how much sleep is really necessary to function, and how quick and precious life really is. It’s the small, mundane things that over joy me now. The way that you snuggle up under my neck during naps, and how you fit just perfectly there. The way you tell me “bye-bye,” then “love you,” then “kisses?” when you go from one room to another. I miss you too when you go into the kitchen. The way that you pronounce some words like you’re from Boston—“cah” and some like you’re from Kentucky—“rec-tAy-ngle”. When you learned to jump I felt like it had never been done before by anyone. When you counted to ten I started crying. You are the best thing I have ever done, and the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
You are wildly passionate about all things. You demand prompt service when you request something. You don’t quite understand “wait” yet, which leads to some excellent theatrics, complete with wailing and throwing your body on the ground. You love apples, oranges, “baneenas,” being outside, the park, shooting basketball, fire trucks, police cars, and diggers. The highlight of your week is Mondays, when the trash truck comes. You wave and say hi to the men working, and they always look for you at your perch in the window.
Your daddy is your best friend. You two play and play, running through the house from end to end. As soon as Daddy wakes up you ask him “running?” He is usually happy to oblige. Every day when he goes to work it breaks your heart all over again.
You love to read books, and would lie in our bed snuggling and reading all day if you could. It’s hard to turn down your sweet little voice saying “another book?” You can count to ten now, and we’re working on 11-15. You know most of your colors, and can recognize most letters. Every now and then I’ll hear you singing snippets of the alphabet song. You like to paint and color. You play with the other kids at church so well. Every Sunday when we pick you up, the workers comment on how sweet you are. You are a very kind, considerate boy.
You are finally getting some longer hair, and it’s a fine strawberry blond. Some days it looks red, others white-blond. In the back it can get the smallest curls that stand out. These curls make me happier than hair should.
You think there are whales in every body of water. You think every spot on anything is a spider. You are better at working my phone than your Dad. You sometimes get your stuffed animals, lay them on a pillow, cover them up, and read books to them. You make me feel like maybe I’m doing something right in this world. You are my sweet baby boy that I never knew I needed.
Happy Birthday Ezra Benjamin.