This is 2!

Darling V,

You are 2 years old today. The two years leading up to your birth felt so long; but since you were born time seems to have sped up. I want to take a moment to tell you about yourself at 2 years old, before I forget, and before you’re suddenly 3!

When I was pregnant with you, I said I thought you were a strong-willed and determined little soul, and so far you’ve proven me right. Being your mother has been the most fascinating experiment in anthropology. Not just because it’s humbling to see how we, as humans, develop and grow, but also because not passing on my DNA means I am better able to see you for who you are, and not who I assume you to be, based on familial heritage.

You look a lot like your dad, but you look more and more like our donor too. But then there are a few things about you—your height, the vertical crease in your septum, how your hair is wavier underneath—that seem to have been inherited, somehow, from me.

I can ascribe your bright and curious mind and physical stamina to your dad’s side of the family. We imagine you got your inclusive, non-judgmental nature and love of dance to our donor.

But what of my environmental and social influence do I see?

I see a child who loves to create art and listen to music. Your dad may have introduced you to opera, but I encourage your latent love of music by singing to you and playing music from as many genres as possible. You have a fondness for jazz (“daz!”) and opera (“op-oo-ah!”), but I swooned when you took ownership of one of my all-time favourite songs (“Sing It Loud” by k.d. lang).

“Dat’s V__’s song!” you announced, making me laugh.

The San Diego Opera recently put on several 30-minute performances to promote their production of Rossini’s Cinderella. I wish I’d taken you to all performances because you sat on my lap, transfixed, for the first 15 minutes. The latter half had you squirming and asking for water, but you never took your eyes off the singers for more than a few seconds. Musical ability or appreciation may be genetic, but it needs coaxing by someone who enjoys it too. I am glad to be able to lead you on this expedition. (If your tastes were, say, more athletic, I wouldn’t be able to guide you as well…)

You’re beginning to be really good company. You’ve acquired my goofy sense of humour and have begun to try out your own jokes. Sometimes you’ll talk in gibberish to see our reactions, and when we repeat what you’ve muttered, you dissolve into giggles. You and I spend all day every day together, and we laugh at a lot of things. A week ago, after the lights were out, you asked me to sing Happy Birthday first to the Teletubbies (the only show you watch, so you’re pretty obsessed), and then…

“Sing Happy Birday Po ‘cootah?”

I burst out laughing. “You want me to sing Happy Birthday to Po’s scooter?!”

She cracked up, laughing at her own joke and delighted that I got it. I obliged, and went through the repertoire of the four Teletubbies’ accessories. It was the first time we simultaneously enjoyed each others’ company. It was a small thing, but it was a defining moment in our relationship.

You’re a pretty easy-going kid, all things considered. The one problem area we’ve had has been sleep. In June, when you were 20 months old, we moved into a house and you began sleeping in your own room. That’s all it took for your to sleep soundly from 8pm till 7am—being along in your own room. You took to it like a duck takes to water—one little push, and you were off. Maybe the months of sleep-training finally paid off, but I think you’d been ready for your own space for a long time.

I sing the same Buttercup song to you every night as we hold hands through the bars of your crib. When it’s time to say goodnight, sometimes you ask for a nose kiss, then eye kisses, then a mouth kiss, and sometimes you want a mouth kiss through several of the spaces between crib bars. But when you’re ready to say goodnight you no longer say “Banjo food and water” (a bizarre cue that your dad and I have hooted about) but, “Buttercup later. Mummy sitting floor later. Mummy say goodnight. Later. Night-night!”

Your room is across the narrow hallway from our room, but I still sleep with our door open and the video monitor on my bedside table. Like with weaning you, it’s been harder on me than it has for you and I’m happy about that. My fears about SIDS have been replaced with fears about kidnappers and coyotes and earthquakes and fires, and I guess that right there is what makes me a mom. So for reassurance, last thing at night before I pull the sheets over my body, I steal into your room. The door opens and the sound of the noise machine is louder. Your smell, at once malty, sweet, and almost leathery, perfumes the room. That moment, where I can breathe in your delicious smell, is half the reason I go in and check on you. It’s my bedtime ritual. The few moments when I can bask in passive motherhood.

I hover over your crib, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. My hand feels its way to gently cup your head and stroke your hair, already past your shoulder. I bend over your crib and my lips graze your fat little cheek. My kiss always makes you stir. I whisper, “Thank you for choosing me to be your mama. I love you so much.”

The other day you said “Love you, Mama” for the first time, and it was a tender moment. I’m not convinced you know what it means exactly, only that it is a good thing to say. Tonight you looked at the sunset and described it as “a lovely sunset,” then “sunset so cool!” Your new silver glitter Vans are “Spuckle shoes so piddy.” You are exceptionally verbal. I’ve long given up on counting all the words you know, but it is probably between 300-400. You drink up words and test them out.

“He’s in da car. He’s in da car, driving. He’s in da car, driving, wearing a hat.”

Recently, your vocabulary acquisition has slowed to make way for pronouns and multi-word concepts:

No like it!
Have this.
Milk please.
That’s better.
That’s Mummy’s!
Thank you, Daddy.
Mummy reading book.
Banjo throw ball outside!
Mummy wear red tee-shirt.
Claire and Katelyn coming car now.
V__ climb mountain, Daddy, in Beco.
No, Mummy, I want Daddy change wet diaper!
Daddy picking up in the grass Banjo’s poop!

I’m particularly amused by the last two sentences. There’s my independent and observant girl. Your syntax needs a bit more development, but I love how expressive you are—even when I have to take a deep breath when you pitch a fit and swipe at my face in frustration. Your talkativeness makes for fewer tantrums, but when you don’t get your way you will throw yourself to the floor and scream hot tears. You are hard to distract in these moments, but I remember someone else’s wise words: “They’re not trying to give you a hard time. They are having a hard time.” I take a deep breath and talk to you like a cavewoman.

“V__ is MAD!” I say.

“Nye-e-e-es!” you wail.

“V__ is MAD because V__ wants the crayons.”

“Oo-kee!” you hiccup hopefully.

“But Mama took the crayon because V__ was drawing on the wall.”

Sometimes in these moments where your world is broken, you need an explanation. Most of the time, you just need a hug. A simple hug validates your feelings, and I really am working very hard to put your emotional needs above my own. Like me, you are a sensitive soul, but unlike me, I want you to grow up knowing that it’s okay to have big feelings and that you can safely share them with me.

In the moments when you’re scared, you hug me tight. I can picture us as our hairier primate cousins, your fists gripping my fur. I love how affectionate you are. I love how you respond to touch. I understand that.

And I also understand when you offer me a hug when you’re trying to distract me from the bowl of yogurt you flung on the floor…

Like me, you’re at once a girly girl, loving the fun of dressing up and rubbing creams into your skin (which, considering you’re a redhead in Southern California, makes putting on sunscreen enjoyable). You’re a sweet little mother to your baby dolls and you love real babies too. The caregiver at the YMCA told me when a baby cried, you rushed over to ‘help’ and I hope that, if we are lucky enough to give you a sibling, you will enjoy being a big sister.

For all your girliness, like me, you’re also a tomboy. You love poking things with sticks and playing in the dirt, feeling it pass through your hand as you sprinkle it all over your toy truck. (The same truck with eyes that so alarmed you until your friend climbed in and started driving around.)

As you’ve grown up, I recognise that you are an introvert, like both your parents. On Saturday, at your birthday party, you escaped to play Legos by yourself for 20 minutes before rejoining the party. I know what it’s like to need time alone to decompress, and I know what it feels like to be deprived of that opportunity, so I’m glad I can support you in being you.

Funny, smart, kind, empathic, independent, artistic… if I could have waved my wand long before my infertility journey started, these are the qualities I would have wanted in my child. Regardless of DNA, I have the perfect kid for me, and I’m so happy it’s you!

Happy birthday, darling. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad I get to be your mama. Wow, what a privilege.

As I whisper in your ear every night,

I love you so, so much. Thank you for choosing me to be

Your Mama xo

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