I sit here on the eve of your third birthday and marvel at the human beings you are becoming. With each milestone comes new challenges, but new triumphs as well. I love those moments in the wee hours of the morning, the ones when it is too early for me to come get you, but too late for you to go back to sleep. I hear the two of you talking to each other and it is the sweetest start to my day. Henry, you usually pretend to be “Honey” while Tallulah pretends to be “Mommy” and you pretend to need things and care for each other. The dialogue usually ends with Henry calling Tallulah “too sassy” and then the silence of the morning is broken.
We bound down the stairs, all five of us, and start our day with a snuggle on the couch. Tallulah, you and Henry usually sit right on top of me in “Mommy’s ‘nuggle’ spot.” I can barely see over you to glimpse at the Today Show or Barney or Sophia the First, whichever show won the favor that morning. I sit, smothered by tiny almost-three-year-old hineys and soak in your stinky morning smells. They are the last vestiges of babyhood and I am savoring them.
All too soon, we will be dismantling your cribs, irrevocably transitioning into “big girl” and “big boy” beds. And for the first time in 9 years, we will soon have no children in diapers. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that Mommy will have a hard time accepting all of these (glorious) milestones because they mark the end of your babyhood. I’m sorry that Mommy tears up when, instead of crying and running to me when you fall, you dust yourself off and say, “I’m ok, Mom” (that would be Tallulah, NOT Henry!) I’m sorry if I do that weird long hug once in a while as I soak in your delicious little baby smells for a few moments longer. I’m sorry if I linger outside your pre-school door next year. I may even climb over a bush to peak in the window or seem to have misplaced my keys just to be sure you didn’t forget your snack… or you need another hug.
But I know you won’t.
You see, you have done a bang-up job of growing. It’s your Mommy who can’t catch up. Watching the two of you grow into conscientious, caring, talkative, boisterous little people has been one of the greatest joys of my life. But it is going by at the speed of light.
Thank you for getting it and knowing when to stay out of Finny’s way. Thank you for cleaning up Finny’s toys before he gets home, so he doesn’t know you played with them. Thank you for moving from the seat you want to sit in (even though it’s Finny’s)… somehow you just understand even when he doesn’t. You ask before you touch Finny’s towers because you know that “Finny’s gonna get so mad!”
There is so much empathy wrapped in those tiny little bodies.
Yet so much mischief, too.
Henry, you are like the Mary Tyler Moore of kids– you can turn the world on with your smile. Kid, there is nothing stopping you! I still can’t believe that Cerebral Palsy is a thing of the past for you. You finished with your final therapy in August. What was once 3 therapies a week is now none. I could sit for hours and marvel at the wonder of you. You will move mountains one day, of that I am quite certain.
Tallulah, you were a born leader. I knew from the first time I held you that you were going to teach me about strength. You have a zest (some may call it sass) and a confidence about you that I hope never goes away. You are going to set the world on fire, I just know it.
So, forgive me if I have a teary smile while we blow out your candles on Sunday. I’m just so darn proud of my babies.