Two years ago today you completed us.

Two months you waited until you decided to grow.

Two sparkly blue eyes which are flecked with gold.

Two dimpled hands that hold my cheeks as you kiss my nose.

Two chubby legs that carry you away from me. And bring you back. For now.

Two syllables to say my name. “Ma. Ma.”

Two tragic minutes in time-out when you hit.

Two older brothers to get you into trouble and maybe even get you out of it.

Two parents, one of whom gave you blonde hair and the other who made it curly. Who love you. To the moon. To the sun. And back. And again.

Two.

You are perfectly two.

I am not a morning person.

This is perhaps an understatement.

But I get up early to beat the child-rush and to quietly come to grips with consciousness, and after 15 minutes and a cup of coffee I’m good. Sometimes I even like being up.

I sit at the table (coffee in hand) and watch the deck get brighter as the sun comes up. And the daylight brings the birds to the feeders. And if I’m really lucky, Evan will creep down the stairs and crawl up on my lap and watch with me.

“Mom,” he’ll whisper, “there’s a mother red-bellied woodpecker.” Except he says, “muddah wed-bellied woodpeckew,” and part of me hopes he never corrects his pronunciation.

Evan is my bird boy.

With Jensen, it’s football. We sit and watch football for hours and may not even speak a word and we are content. Together. I used to do the same with my dad. I didn’t even understand the game. But I sat next to Dad and watched him watch and I was satisfied. The memory still makes me smile.

I don’t know what Caleb will be. But I know that we will share something that will make us both happy to the center of our beings.

And if whatever he is requires me to get up early, so be it. I will do it.

Because that is love.