Two.

A letter to my two year old.

I read somewhere once that having a child is a little like learning to live with your heart outside your body. It is so poignantly, excruciatingly true.

So’s this.

Having a child — in particular a toddler — is a little like having a stalker. But instead of getting a restraining order and some therapy and getting on with it, you have to literally keep it alive. Literally. Your stalker’s life depends on you, and every time you tell yourself, “That's it, I’m not enabling this co-dependent nonsense for another second,” your stalker does something life-threatening (launching himself face first off a scooter, for example, or trying to climb over the second-story railing at the top of the stairs) just to reel you back in.

It’s intense, being the center of someone’s relentless attention. I’m sorry for pressuring you for so long to say mama. Jay counted once recently and you hit 1,472 moms by about 8:45. AM. You actually aren’t contractually obligated to begin every sentence with “mommy,” are you aware? Especially when all that follows is “baseball.” Or “quack quack.” Or “somethingunintelligible.” Please, dear god, stop. (Never stop, though.) Or at least tell your dad something every once in a while.

Still a noodle. My prince. Our punk. You are fearless and funny. How’d you learn to be so funny already? You’re a tester and a studier and a talker. You demand pizza (“eeya!”) and have inexplicably strong opinions on things like: whether the lights should be on or off. Whether the front door should be open or closed. When you should be outside and when you should come in the house. (Never. You never want to be in the house. Ever.) You’re fascinated by goose poop and shoes, anyone’s, and you adore your cats and grandparents and big brother. You’re an incurable flirt (just ask your babysitters) and an avid sports fan.

You are every ordinary two-year-old milestone and checked-off growth chart. But to me, you are exceptional. You are extraordinary. And you are, with your scabby knees and strawberry jam-smeared hair, my heart. Out there for the world to see and appreciate. And trip.

How I love you Emmett James.