I Have a Two Year Old TODAY! *Serious Leah Enthusiasts Only, Por Favor*

To Little Miss Leah Mae "Turkey Sub" Palmer,

Today you are two years old! I realize this is a big step for you... what with your highly anticipated "Terrible Two's" finally being legit and all...

Here is a glimpse of you very first thing this morning, enjoying a little toast and banana delight:

Right now, as I type this, you are watching your favorite (for the moment) show, "Backyardigans: Mission to Mars," and you just bull rushed me and tried to slam my lap top closed. I had to straight arm you and banish you to your rug. I'm sorry for the straight-arming.

You've had a beef with my lap top lately. I'm currently waiting for my "Z" key to show up in your diaper. I'm pretty sure you ate it. Just to show it who's boss. But that's beside the point. The point of this post is that you are the birthday girl! And for fear of forgetting exactly how you are right now, a thought that makes me feel panicky and grief-stricken all at once, I wanted to share a few of the favorite (and not so favorite) things that make you the love of my life.

You wake up in the morning and start jabbering away at me straight away. I like to think your dreams are just so preposterous and glorious that you've been waiting ALL NIGHT to tell me about them. It makes me feel special.

Your awakening from naptime is a completely different story. You require NO LESS than one half hour of snuggling while you make your way out of your sleep funk. You are very tender and sappy during this time... complete with loving gazes into my eyes and cheek caresses galore. But your cheek caresses can turn to face slaps on a dime. Immediate-post-nap-sleep-funk is a fragile and unstable time for you.

Whenever the lullaby, "Hush, Hush" from the "Backyardigans" comes on, you become very somber and shed no less than three tears by the song's end. There is no ugly-face crying or hullabaloo... simply a quivering chin, a reach for my arm, and a few drops rolling down your cheeks. This phenomenon has prompted your father to play the song for you every night for months.

You charge me with the remote high above your head, in bludgeoning position, shouting, "Schow? Schow?" whenever you want to watch a little tube.

You are obsessed with various beverages, and when given a frosty brew, you gulp it to the point of desperation, followed by a gasp for breath and an "ahhhh!" People witnessing this for the first time become very uncomfortable, and then very impressed.

If I ever dare fall asleep on the couch while you are on the prowl, I WILL be awakened by you trying to shove a goldfish cracker between my lips.

As soon as I have finished doing your hair for the day you, without fail, run into our bedroom to check yourself out in the mirror. Then you search the apartment for dad to show him your do.

You close the door to your bedroom when, and only when, you have somehow gotten your mitts on my purse and are seeking a little privacy while you spread its contents out all over the floor. You know you are not allowed to do this, and will someday become wise to your door-closing-dead-give-away. I'll be very sad when that day comes. For now, I find great delight in barging in on you and causing you to fill your drawers on the spot.

You have an extraordinary fake giggle. You walk around our apartment all day long with your head thrown back, force-giggling up a storm. And when your giggle is fake, it has an alarmingly low-pitch. Like Ursula.

You collect small toys and shove them in my lap or under my legs. Once you have collected a satisfactory amount you come and sit on them, like a roosting hen.

The slightest hint of a beat or music of any kinds makes you feverishly cut a rug. And you frequently bust out startlingly complex dance moves.

The entire time I am in the shower, your fat little hand darts in and out of the curtain. And with each pass of your hand, a captive toy or gadget is tossed into the water. I never see your face. Just that fat little hand over and over again. Coupled with an occasional Ursula giggle.

You respond to every question I ask you with a contemplative "ummm..." followed by a sharp, "no." No matter what I ask you.

Each morning you come into bed with your dad and me at 6:30AM. And then you proceed to body slam me until 7:20AM. Which is when I finally give up and get up. And you slide off the side off the bed, elated and victorious.

No matter who I am on the phone with, you pester me until I let you talk. And the moment you get the phone from my hands you put it to your ear, put your other hand on your hip, and walk away from me, jabbering up a storm, as if I had been interrupting YOUR very important conversation the whole time. When you are finished, you hand the phone back to me, only to become overcome with giver's remorse. And then we hand fight over the phone until I get up and lock you out of my bedroom.

I know as soon as I pick you up I will feel your little hand start working its way up my sleeve to the back of my upper arm. Which is super toned. And that's why you like it. You like to squeeze my toned, muscley arm...

And finally, you are, without a doubt, the most snugly, tender-hearted, little munchkin I have ever encountered. You would spend every waking moment in my arms if I let you. And for now, that's how we spend a lot of our time together. Because we can. I love it.

I have a million more 2-year-old Leah-isms on a list that I will save just for you.

You are the light of my life, little girl. Sometimes I feel like the only reason I was sent to this earth was to be your mother. But I get a little nervous as you get older... I feel like I've started a countdown to when you will be old enough to actually pay attention to what I say and do and that I'll disappoint you sometimes. Hopefully that's what motherhood is all about, having a reason to be better. Happy, happy birthday, my little love.

Love,

Yermummy