Paul turns two on Sunday. I have and will continue to write stuff about how parenthood is a challenge, and don't write that much stuff about what a joy it is because I have a hard time being unironically sappy in writing and, honestly, I know people don't want to read that type of stuff too much. Everyone thinks his or her kid is the best. But for the record, for the Googling record in case the world still exists when he is old enough to Google himself, I think Paul is the best. When my husband and I were thinking about having kids, one of my reasons "for" was that if he and I had a lot of fun together, it might be even more fun to add a third person to our posse. And it turns out that it was. Yeah, we have tough days, but he is exactly who I was hoping for when it came to that new fun person. He is confident and brave and outgoing, happy to wave and say hi to strangers. He's a little guy still (and I feel strangely defensive when people on the playground refer to him as "a baby" even though I know it'll be sad when that ceases to be) but he's tough, too. He stands his ground and if he gets knocked around, he always bounces back, probably even sooner than I'm ready to because secretly I love cuddling him when he needs a bit of reassurance, but he's back in action before I even feel done doling out the comfort. But I'm proud of him for being so busy, too. He's funny and clever and weird and makes me laugh. He surprises us with funny dances and songs that he picked up in daycare or invented on the fly. He's all kinds of talky and when he says "Ooh cookie!" I want to give him all the cookies in town (but I don't because I also take a weird pleasure in forming him both in the tough ways in addition to the fun ways.) He's noisy and bossy ("Mommy come on!" "Sleep, Daddy!" ["sleep" being a game we play where we pretend to sleep and he pretends to wake us up], "No, no dancing!") and smart and helpful (if you need someone to hand you invisible pieces of dust from the floor, he's your man) and he hustles wherever he goes, chugging his little arms and legs along because he's in a hurry. Getting hugs from him--even just any sort of physical touch--makes my brain feel noticeably happier. I think he's amazingly beautiful (which is why I hate it when he head-bangs to the point of getting a scab--it messes up his face) and I understand now what my dad once said about doubting that anyone would ever kiss me as much as he kissed me (when I was a baby) because I need to kiss those perfectly full pink cheeks as much as possibly before they thin out and he stops letting me. Even his sloppy wet mouth kisses are pretty good. I love seeing his little head pop up in his crib in the morning and the way he bounces up to say hi to us, even if I'm mad that he was up sooner than he wanted. I'm proud, proud, proud of him and I try not to be maudlin about him growing up and getting older but I know that my time being his mommy and him being my little baby man is limited so I'm trying to get it all in as much as possible--seriously, sometimes when I'm super happy I think, "Is there a way to cherish this and smash this into my memory concrete more?" I can't say the two years have flown by, because I've acutely felt every single day (well, maybe not the ones where we were on vacation). Some of those days are hard, but the good days are worth five of the bad ones. I love him so very much.