The last hour of your birthday

Happy birthday, kiddo.

Next year mommy is going to make you a cake made out of nice 9" circles. Maybe you'll be a geometry prodigy and think it is The Coolest.

You made it to Two. It was questionable, you know, especially during these last several weeks where you've massively and annoyingly cranked up the Contrary. I think "contrary" is a good word. It accurately describes your disposition, while sounding much nicer than Fist-Shakingly Disobedient. The amount of listening-to-Mommy has so drastically decreased I'd think you'd gone deaf- if it weren't for your ability to sing along to every last song on the 90 minute VeggieTales DVD. 

But I give you credit. It's been a crazy year, what with the crazy pregnant lady you had for a mom and then the transitioning to one nap and then the new baby sister and then the four frillion days of rain and gloom that kept you stuck inside with a crazy not-pregnant lady and the shrill, insistent baby banshee who is now sleeping in your room. You're still the cheerful easygoing enthusiastic-about-everything little guy you've been since day one. Well done, Jackson.

Your first birthday felt more like my birthday. A birth day. I replayed the moments you entered the world over and over in my head, tearing up, smothering you with "OH MY SWEET WITTLE BABY!" kisses because that's the kind of mother you have, it's true, I'm sorry. But this year I can say your birthday was fully yours. I conjured up an image of where we were two years ago, you and me, curled up in a hospital bed, but I had to work to find that picture and seconds later it was replaced with "Why isn't your father home with the food yet?" and "That child did not just smear cake into my couch, did he?" I think this means you're growing up. You're not new anymore. You're my big boy, the older brother, the kid who can feed himself THANK GOD.

You want cake for breakfast and when I give you a grilled cheese sandwich you say, "More! Nilk!" All day long you follow me around saying, "N-n-n-NILK!" and I do believe, at two years old, you are subsisting solely on whole milk. And you know, you're kind of a little dude. That shirt that was too big for you last summer is still too big for you. Perhaps you might be interested in an apple? A bite of chicken? At this point even French fries will do. You eat green beans though, a fact that does not cease to amaze me, your mother, who was once forced to eat a single green bean before she could leave the dinner table, and finally had to wash it down, whole, with a glass of water, like a pill. You call them sticks ("More! Stick!") and if that's what gets you to eat a fresh vegetable, I'm happy to call them whatever you like.

You hide. You shriek, "I hiding!" while running out of your room and into my room and into my bathroom and standing in the corner, in full view, waiting for me to hunt you down. The other day you hid at your friend E's house. E lives in a five-bedroom house in the suburbs and I was about to start looking in the GARAGE before E's mother shouted that she found you, hiding behind a closet door in the guest bedroom. You thought it was hilarious. I thought I was going to be sick.

You love your sister. You want her to hang out in your crib. You want her to dance with you. You read to her and give her toys and hug the life out of her. She used to love you too, but something happened and now she thinks you've got some kind of plague.and yells whenever you come near. This is hard on all of us, Jack, BELIEVE ME. Even so, she's still enamored.

When my vegetable garden is hacked to death I'm blaming your grandparents.

You love other people. I am often desperate for other people, ANY PEOPLE, because sometimes I'm afraid your dad will get home from work and find me passed out on the floor, a last ditch attempt to escape the whining. A few days ago I called up Hanna's mom and begged her to let us visit for an hour. I told you where we were going and you interrupted your own whine to say, "Hanna? Howse?" Which you repeated over and over and over until we knocked on her front door and you disappeared into her backyard.

You're gonna have to grow a little if you expect this girl to be your Future Prom Date.

When she was smaller, your baby sister was so difficult to feed and put to bed I made your father do it. That meant putting you to bed was my new job. I didn't know how. I knew your dad had created your own little routine and you are such a fastidious little person, I didn't want to mess it up. But I think we created our own bedtime routine- as many books as I can handle, a song, a prayer and night night. Now we read books in my room, because Molly is sleeping in your room, and the rocking chair is too hard and the lights are too bright. But you snuggle in and recite all the words to Goodnight Moon and Edwina. You sing along to Baby Beluga. You inform me when it's time to sneak into your room and sit in the big blue chair and whisper prayers. And then you point to your bed, because we've reached the point in the routine where you lay down- until I leave the room and you act like a dog chasing its tail, diving around in your bed for the perfect most comfortable spot.

You're sensitive and shy: you seem to have more fun with one or two other kids than the whole playgroup. You're loud and gregarious: when Ye Ye asks you to dance for the nice Chinese aunts you perform on command. You love anything sweet, you love "Ow! Sigh!", you sing, you narrate your own actions, you know where everything goes, you will spend hours watering the sidewalk if I let you. You squeal with glee whenever the doorbell rings, you always want to go to Gamma's house, the highlight of your Sunday is the coffee hour doughnut. I wasn't sure how I would feel about a walking talking food-refusing two-year-old, but so far so good. Turns out toddlers ARE fun.

I find you fascinating in every way, Mr. Jack. Whatever you're doing is always going to be new to me.

You know what would be totally new and AWESOME? Paying attention when Mommy says, "STOP IT RIGHT THIS SECOND I SWEAR THIS IS NOT FUNNY I MEAN IT DO YOU WANT ME TO SELL YOU TO THE GYPSIES?"

Love Your Mommy

New post at Hot By Thirty

Comments

[Lindsay]

Happy birthday, Jackson! :o)

[Shelby]

Happy birthday, Jack! Go easy on your Mommy, okay?

[-R-]

You did a great job on his cake! I am impressed.

I love that last picture.

[Elizabeth]

That cake is the bomb - I am way impressed.
Happy Birthday Jack!

[Carrie]

The cake looks great! And I love the post, he's going to have fun reading that one someday.

Happy birthday, Jack!

[Sheila]

Oh Maggie... I loved this post. I kept choking and tearing up. My son is only 5 months old, but I just can't wait to see all the personality that's tucked away in there.

Happy Birthday Jackson!!

[Christina]

Sweet yet funny at the same time. A great combo in a birthday letter. Happy Birthday Jack!!

ps... you are looking skinny!!!

[Lindsay]

Great post and I LOVE THAT CAKE........

[Julie]

The last picture is a great one! Everyone looking in the right direction and everything...Love it.

You look great! :)

[Nessa]

Love that last picture. And by the way? you look totally skinny! You rock. And happy b-day Jack!

[Kelli]

Maggie, that was awesome. I've been reading your blog since before Jack was born (just really, really horrible about commenting - sorry about that), and it was such fun to read his two-years-old birthday post!! I wish I was not on the opposite coast, because you would be a super-fun person to know outside of the blogosphere, not least because of the cool way you love on your kids (i'm taking mad notes, as I am, as yet, childless). Happy (belated) Birthday to Jack, and Happy (belated) Mother's Day to you!

[Kate P]

What a great birthday! Have a ball being TWO, Jack!!!

And may I say that judging by your garden tool technique, it appears you have a future in either hockey or golf. So drink up your milk, kiddo! :)

[antonia]

Happy birthday to dear little Jack!

and you make the most amazing cakes Maggie!

[Angela Noelle]

So, so sweet! And holy crapoly, that cake is amazing...