Tomorrow is RB's second birthday. Every year, I plan to write a letter for our boys on their birthdays to read when they're older. Here's this years letter.
RB,
Oh, man. It's your second birthday. Two years of this world being richer because of your presence. Two years of me being a mom. Two years of us figuring it out together. You have changed so many lives in so many ways it is hard to quantify, but for you, I will try.
It's been an action packed year.
You became a big brother this year. You weren't too sure of this promotion at first. You looked at LJ like you were wondering if we'd kept the receipt. You didn't love sharing the attention. In full transparency, you sometimes still don't. As the months have come and gone, so has your hesitancy toward your brother. He's the first person you want to see when you wake up. You kiss him goodnight. You hug him when he's sad. You do something that makes him laugh and I can see you asking yourself how to make that happen again. You show him everything you love. You even given him some of your tractors to investigate, which is a true honor. Sometimes, he enters your space and that irritates you. I'm sure throughout your life, he will irritate you (and you him) quite often. Grandpa Jeff once told me when I was complaining about Uncle Jake that my brother is the person I will know longest in my life. He told me I will know him longer than my parents, my spouse, my children, and my friends. I have never forgotten that. I am proud to know you now have someone with whom you will be half of a whole for the rest of your days. You're a fantastic big brother. You check on him when he's playing. You tickle his belly. You show him how to crawl . You talk to him in your language of eve. Most nights, you sit quietly in his room and read while I rock him to sleep. You becoming a big brother is more beautiful than I could've ever imagined in my wildest dreams.
You've been talking. Lord, son, have you been talking. We started this year of your life with a few words here and there. You are now at a place where you are saying your opinions and feelings frustrations when they don't align with reality. You are saying no (very firmly) to things you don't want or like. You are saying yes to everything you are excited about. I asked you tonight what you want for dinner tomorrow and you very confidently answered rice, beans, and steak. You could talk about tractors and trucks from sun up to sun down. You see a tractor or a truck and the next word out of your mouth is "more!" You rode the lawn mower with your dad the other day and you got excited you were overwhelmed. You mowed the whole yard and went on a ride around the neighborhood and still when Daddy parked in the driveway, you said "Daddy drive! More tractor!" Yesterday, I asked if you were ready for dinner, you said, "Not yet, Mama." It's so bittersweet seeing this change in you. It means you're growing up. When you were a baby, unable to speak, I would long for these days, and now ironically I find myself missing the days when I understood you because we were one in the same. You are still and always a part of me. The hardest part of being a mom is knowing and watching you become more yourself and less the unit of baby and mom. It's selfish to think that way, but it's God's honest truth.
You are tough as nails. You are basically made of rubber, which is good because you are a daredevil. The highest you can climb is, in your opinion, a great launch point for a big jump. You throw a ball like you're in an NFL tryout. You run like Jack Sparrow and you do your best to get to the fastest speed on your bike. Yesterday you decided to show me you know how to climb down the stairs backwards. I didn't love it but you couldn't be talked out of it. At one point, you hit your shin. I know it hurt because I too have shins. I asked if it hurt, and you said yeah, and then you decided it didn't hurt enough to disrupt your plan, and on you continued. You love to go down your slide on your belly. You love to hang upside down. You're so wild and free. I hope you stay that way forever. You have this trust in everything you come across. You trust the stairs not to let you fall. You trust the ducks at the park not to bite you. You trust the things you jump off of to not let you slip. You trust your mom and dad to help you figure out all your feelings. You trust your dogs to not knock you down when they come running in and you don't move out of the way. You trust your Bubba not to pull your hair even though it's his favorite thing to do.
Your love for reading has grown tenfold. It's rare to find you without a book in hand, unless you're distracted by a toy vehicle of some kind. Every night, we read three books. Every night, it's negotiation. You and I both know three is the cap but you try to push it without fail. You pick out your own books. You lay in my lap and we read: sometimes me to you and sometimes you to me. You have your current favorites, like How to Hug a Porcupine, Traffic Pups, All the Factors of Why I Love Tractors, and Green Eggs and Ham. You've gutted the Factors of Why I Love Tractors book, but luckily before you did that, I memorized it. You've memorized a lot of them too. Sometimes you complete a sentence as I read it. You ask your dad to read you every book in the living room every day after breakfast. You now have asked we read books during bathtime instead of singing. This is another thing I pray never changes.
You aren't perfect. Well, you are perfect to me, but you have things you are still learning. Empathy. Not to dump a box of tractors on your brother. How to not melt down when someone tells you no. How we can't always get what we want. How sometimes you are not allowed to do something for literal preservation of your livelihood. You're working very hard to figure out utensils. You are working very hard on your colors, your ABCs, and how to count past two. You're learning patience. You try to do things you haven't yet mastered and give up after a few tries. It's important to me that you know failure is not the end all be all. You can do hard things. You are more capable than I ever knew someone your age could be. You're sometimes determined to figure out potty training, and other times can't be bothered. You're figuring out when it's right to say sorry.
You have so many things you love. Apple juice, pretzels, and cold, flavorless tortillas. You love to flex your muscles and you make the most hilarious face. You've recently decided you love your teddy bear. You love your dogs even though they drive you crazy sometimes. You love to see the moon. You love to see a tractor or a truck driving down the street. Garbage trucks seem to especially fill you with excitement. You love to be outside. You've gotten better with being messy - for a while there you couldn't stand it, but you're figuring it out. You love to patrol the house with the fly swatter. You love to say hi to everything (everything!) and you love to give hugs. You love John Deere videos on YouTube. You sometimes love music but only when you get to pick it. You love to listen to tractor sounds. You love to lay in your bed. You love your daddy, borderline obsessed. You love me even though I frustrate you. You love your brother even in the hard moments. You love your grandparents and your friends. You love to sweep and clean up your toys. You're so proud of yourself when you do things you have worked so hard to learn.
You are so funny. Such a joker, my boy. You already seem to understand sarcasm and you can tell when I am joking and when I am serious (most of the time). You do things that get a laugh and you repeat them because you love laughter. You have the most incredible laugh. I wish I could bottle it. When you're truly chuffed, your smile is so beautiful it's almost too much to witness. There are moments when you are being silly and laughing and playing where my whole world stops spinning and I have to once again try to comprehend why I was blessed to even know you, let alone be your mom.
I look at your second birthday as a marker of many accomplishments. We've kept you alive, which is not as easy as it sounds when you like to risk your life every fifteen minutes. We've kept you fed and full, which is not as easy as it sounds when you are a bottomless pit. We've kept you clothed, which is not as easy as it sounds when you are in the 99th percentile and are constantly moving the goalpost. We've kept you happy and secure, and I know you know just how loved you are. You have a beautiful attachment to the things you should.
I also look at this day as the anniversary of who I was ceased to exist and the person I am now began. I am more patient. I am more understanding. I am significantly less bothered by the things that don't really matter. I have figured out how to communicate how I am feeling without letting my emotions take the wheel. I have learned to laugh even with tears in my eyes. I have learned that every time I think there's no way life can get sweeter, it most certainly does. I have learned that so far I've not been confronted by a single thing I cannot do. I have learned that the strength of motherhood cannot be measured.
This was also the year of your dad's accident. I think most people could become untethered by such an experience. I feared so much, from loss of your dad to the affects seeing what was happening would have on you. I feel like we never missed a beat. You continued to live your life as you did before and will continue to afterward. You have seen your father in pain and in strength. You have seen me in the same light. You didn't understand what was happening but you knew something was. I hope you never know what we've been through with this. I hope for you it's just a crazy story about what happened when you were a toddler and you bear no emotional scars. Your dad and I have done our best to protect you from this reality. Only time will tell if we succeeded.
So, what have we learned this year?
We know what most tractors are called, and I now know tractors are everywhere if you just look for them.
We know resilience is in your DNA.
We know just how incredibly intelligent you are; your brain works so quickly and you want all the answers. You'll get there (or pretty close), I imagine.
We know that should you ever need anyone, there is a minute man militia ready to roll out and come to your aid at any given moment. We called on them this year and they came through with flying colors.
We know that you have a capacity for love and joy like few others. You trust this world with such an Innocence that it cannot be accurately described.
I have loved getting to know you over this past year. I have loved every single moment, including the ones where we are all in tears or you are making me consider actually pulling my hair out. I have loved the mundane moments, making you breakfast and dinner and doing your laundry. I have loved the gross moments, as I have encountered too much of something that was once in your body. I have loved your smiles, your laughs, your hugs, and hearing you say "I love you." I have loved seeing your passion for life grow each day, your insatiable curiosity for this world, and your determination to forge a path that is all yours. I have loved the moments when you won't hear logic, like that you have to wear socks or that you cannot drive the car. I have loved every single second. I can't believe that you are our son, RB. I can't believe the universe has granted me the honor of loving you. I love you more than all the tractors ever made, more than every letter in every book ever written. I love you from your toes you refuse to let me clip to your hair you refuse to let me cut. To be a mom is one thing - to be your mom is entirely another.
Thank you, my son, for another beautifully challenging year. I can't wait to see what comes next.
I love you
Always and forever
Together or apart
Mom
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