Well, it happened. I don't know how, I don't know when, but somehow that tiny squishy squirmy girl of mine, swimming around in my beautiful belly, born into the water three days past due, turned two years old.
Somehow we've spent the last two entire years growing together, smiling at each other, laughing, crying, and holding sticky hands. Somehow time passed at lightning speed, and stood completely and quietly still while my girl grew and grew and transformed into this sweet human, and while I grew and grew and transformed into a strong, capable and beautiful version of myself.
Margot, can we talk for a sec? Can I just have a minute to tell you a few things? You, my girl, are more beautiful, more precious to me, and more outstanding than even my wild imagination could have conjured up.
You're hilarious, you're smart, and you're keenly observant. You sing the alphabet, recognize letters and numbers, and can count almost all the way up to 20 in English and in French. ("En français, mama? Okay. ....No sank you en français. All done en français.")
You love dancing, drinking from a straw, taking baths, eating snow off the bottoms of your boots (ew), and above all else, you love to talk.
"Do you hear dat noise?"
"I had a beer."
"Stop, dada. Don't do dat."
"I need a bike."
"I never see Uncle Eric."
You're a little smarty pants, and it's an utter pleasure having conversations with you.
I just put you down for a nap and I can hear you talking to yourself over the baby monitor: "Hello? How are you?! I need a shower." (Oh, and now you're singing Happy Birthday to yourself on repeat.)
I want to bottle you up inside a mason jar and carry you around with me, except not any part of me wants to put this on pause. I'm having too much fun.
Happy birthday, babe. You are lovely and perfect beyond my wildest dreams.