Jemma is Two

Dear Jemma,

Two days ago, two days after Christmas, you turned two years old. We were up north and I went in to get you from your crib while everyone else was downstairs having breakfast. I snuck in and sat on the love seat so I could watch you sleep, on your tummy with your fingers in your mouth and your little rump up in the air. "Hi, Birthday Girl," I said quietly, and you did what you almost always do when you wake up, which is: open your eyes, look around without moving the rest of your body, and then romp crazily around your crib on your hands and knees, giggling. Then I lifted you out and you put your warm head into the crook of my neck. This is how you are, both the silliest and the cuddliest of our two girls.

You are so busy lately, trying to keep up with Annie, trying to say every new word you hear. You run everywhere you go. You say "please" and "thank you" more than anyone else in the family. When you are being naughty, you give yourself a time-out in your room, then come out saying, "Sorry, Mommy." You love fruit. You hate every vegetable except squash. When you are finished eating, you stand right up in your high chair even though we have told you a million, billion times not to do that. You ask to brush and floss your teeth at least twice a day. You know the names of all the Disney princesses and love to see them on your band-aids and the mylar balloons at the grocery store. Your favorite color is purple. You love to take baths. You love to read books in the rocking chair. You kiss me on the lips before bed at night.

For weeks before your birthday, we talked to you about it. It got a little muddled up with the idea of Santa and baby Jesus and Christmas, but you finally got it: birthday cake, Jemma, two. On Saturday, we ate cake in Petoskey. Yesterday, we ate cake here with some more family. And tonight, we finished the cake off as dessert after a dinner where you ate only risotto (no shrimp, no salad, no vegetables). So, you have had plenty of cake. You are two. You are not our baby anymore. What you are is a sweet, silly, happy, uncomplicated toddler who our family loves fiercely. When you are sad, which is not often, we rally around you, we try to make it better. We are more patient with you than with one another, more forgiving, more amused. Your sunny little personality makes us a better family.

But in spite of all your goodness: You do this thing sometimes (I want to get it on video but I never can) when we ask you a question or ask you to do something that you feel you have already done. You gather your fury and your indignity. "I DID!" you say, with that mysterious, slight Southern accent. I worry all the time, feel guilty that your birthday will be lost in the shuffle of such a busy season, and hope that you won't feel overlooked in years to come. You are the peacemaker, the happy-go-lucky; it could happen. Then I see that little spark, that determination, and I feel better. You turned two. You DID. And we celebrated you, we celebrate you every single day. Happy birthday, little one. We love you so, so much.

Love,
Mommy