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Two years of Biscuit!

2010-06-04 - 3:36 p.m.

Yesterday you turned two whole years old. Two days ago I was thinking about the fact that two years earlier you hadn’t yet existed as a person separate from me. At that moment we’d probably been going through checklists and packing for the trip to the hospital the next morning; your sister had already gone to Nana and Grampa’s to stay. I was excited to meet you, and nervous and likely worrying about the IV and the giant needle I’d be getting as prep for you entering the world. I knew that recovery from the surgery would be hard (I was right) but also that I’d done it before and could do it again and that it’d be eclipsed by the fact that you would become part of our lives (I was right about that too).

When they were taking you out and I had this tremendous pressure on my chest from one of the doctors pushing down on you, I thought that I knew then what it would feel like to have a heart attack. When they held you up, my crying, goo-covered squash, my first impression of you was all about the details; the first thing I said was that you had your father’s ears.

First you were skinny, then you fattened into a mini-sumo, then you hated real food when we tried at 6 months, but after that my milk production couldn’t keep up and your weight dropped. At 10 months you were nursing every 2 hours, 24 hours a day, and still you weren’t really gaining. The doctor started to worry, then we started to worry, and then, after much testing and the genesis of a real hatred in you for the entire medical profession, we figured some stuff out (that you had allergies and how to get food into you), and you seem to have gained some ground. You were 11.5 kg the day before you turned 2. This puts you between the 15th and 50th percentiles, according to the WHO standards: I don’t know what my doctor’s chart would say but I’m betting you’re at least over the 10th on hers. Yahoo!

You still don’t talk clearly and we have to translate for you a lot, but you’re acquiring new garbled words all the time. We don’t always know what you mean, but we’re glad you’re trying, and hearing a rendition of you singing Happy Birthday to yourself is almost indescribably cute! You know the letters R and S and the colour orange. You scold Molly the dog when she’s bad, in almost perfect imitation of your daddy (at least in the fierce tone you use – Daddy doesn’t really say “Mah-wee!”). You walk, and run, and swing, and slide (sometimes backwards), and try to climb things you’re not quite ready to climb yet.

You love your sister. She loves you. You sometimes try to keep her out of bed with you and I in the morning, but just as often will kiss her in welcome. You know that a time-out means sitting on the bottom step, but don’t seem to think it’s something you have to do, and if you go along with it it seems more like you’re humouring us. You giggle like a fiend when you are chided for jabbing your fingers into the armpit of someone who’s carrying you, or for scratching an adult. You say sorry to your sister when directed, but I’m not convinced you really know what it means. A genuine gesture of contrition from you is more likely to be a spontaneous hug.

You love me. Oh how you love me. You even say so when I tell you I love you. You can’t stand to see me working on something on the kitchen counter and are always demanding “hug!” or “up!” when I’m trying to cook or bake. You rarely let me leave you at daycare without reaching for me and crying. You want me to be the one to read to you and put you to bed. You often reach for me first when you’ve been hurt, but sometimes twist back and forth wanting first Daddy, then Mumma, then Daddy, then Mumma again. I think what you really want is to be cradled in both our arms, like the filling in a comfort sandwich.

You are loved. And try to tell you and your sister how much I love you both as often as I can.

Happy birthday my little man.

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