On Friday, B turned 2.

One of my favorite parts of the day is going in to B's room in the morning. During the week we put the gate up on his door, and once I am showered and dressed I find him waiting patiently at his door for me. When he sees me his face lights up and he does his excited dance, squeal and all, then rushes back towards his bed for morning cuddle. We lay there while he fumbles with this thumb and blankie while I shower him with kisses. We talk about our plans for the day, discuss how much we will miss each other, and how we intend on being well-behaved citizens.

Another part of my day that I love is when I come home and I hear the same morning squeal and my boy comes running around the corner. I kneel down to feel the full weight of him crash in to me, his little arms go around me neck, and my ear is full of, "Mama, Mama."

My all-time favorite part of the day is when I put him to bed and we have our nighttime cuddle. I have to lie on my side so he can scrunch his back up against me. Sometimes we whisper to each other silly things, other times he will play with my hair or stick his finger in my nose. Whatever we do, our day is incomplete without this time. When I have class or another event that keeps me away from nighttime cuddle I still creep in to his room and watch him dream (secretly hoping he might wake up--it's happened). Tonight, while we were laying there, I wondered how long my little boy would expect this ritual. I would be okay with cuddling with him forever, but I think eventually his partner would mind.

The other day, Jeff and I were talking about when we would try for another baby. Jeff seemed tense about the whole thing and when I asked him to explain he couldn't. I asked him if it was harder knowing what he was getting himself in to and he said, "That's part of it." It's taken me a couple days, but while cuddling with B tonight after his birthday dinner, I began to understand Jeff's feelings. Being my son's mother is incredibly intense experience. In Cormac McCarthy's book, The Road, the mother says that the day her son was born her heart was ripped out of her body. Most people hate the mom for saying that because it seems so cold. I don't think so at all. I feel the same way. When that little boy came in to the world my heart was completely exposed, every cut lip, bruise, joyful discovery, loving cuddle, and frustrating disappointment I feel with acute sensation. This is just one little boy, can my heart handle another one?
(My grandfather once told my mom that having another child doesn't diminish
the love you have for your first child. He explained that it is like lighting
one candle off another--the flame does not diminish. That's a lot [more] love.)

I hate that my son is growing up. I hate that it has happened so fast. I know, I know, "before you know it...", please stop rubbing it in. It was incredibly difficult on Friday night thinking about how many different rituals we have had in his two years. It was absolutely awful to think that these cuddles that I love so much will someday be "kiddie stuff." After B was sufficiently cuddled and tucked away Friday, I trudged downstairs and told Jeff I was going back to school to finish some work. Ostrich meet sand.

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B @ Peter Piper Pizza with the 'rents. And we didn't even have to pay for tokens--he didn't know any better.

B @ his birthday dinner with the fam. He was overwhelmed by the singing and candles--see how he is gripping my hand? Being surprised by Nanners. Enjoying his new potty seat in his new tent.