To my sweet Ellie, the joy of our days.
They told me two would be terrible. I imagined dragging you through the grocery store screaming after I told you that you couldn’t open the Oreos. Months spent avoiding restaurants and other adult places, negotiating vegetables, bedtimes, and brushing your teeth.
As it turns out, two is a lot more joy and a lot less terror.
I wake each morning to your sweet babble over the baby monitor. “Hi Mommy,” you exclaim when I walk through your door. You bound to your feet, collecting your blanket and paci and reach up for me. I steal a few minutes of quiet snuggles with you on the couch, not because we have time, but because I don’t know how many years of quiet morning snuggles I’ll get and it’s good for my soul. “Cakes!” you squeal (which is toddler for “Let’s make pancakes!”). I set you up on the counter with a mixing bowl between your knees. You squeal with excitement as we measure the ingredients and you dump them into the bowl. You’re a terrible mixer, but I don’t mind. We sing songs as we wait for them to brown in the pan. I hope that one day you get to make pancakes with a two year old. It’s messy and so beautiful. I never thought being up before the sun would bring so much joy.
In the light of the morning, you bring joy.
Now that the weather is nice, we spend hours together at the park. You sprint toward the swings and cackle with laughter and joy as I begin to push you. We’ve been pushing you in a swing for years now, but you burst with excitement every time as if it were your first time. Yesterday, your daddy and I sat on the bench watching you slide. Each time you’d exit, you would bound toward us, arms open wide, and leap into our arms to celebrate and then you’d run and do it again. You would have played on that slide for hours if we’d let you. Sitting on that bench, I wondered how many years of unadulterated joy at the accomplishment of going down the slide we have left and I prayed a quick prayer of thanksgiving for the privilege of it all.
In your relentless energy, you bring joy.
The books and media portray toddlerhood as something to dread, something to survive. You, dearest one, are nothing to dread. Watching you learn and discover is the greatest privilege of my life. You never run out of kindness and you’re never too busy not to notice. I’m not sure when we reach an age where we stop noticing, but you’re teaching me to slow down a bit and to see all of the things I normally walk right past. You run to the nice elderly women sitting on the bench at the grocery store. While I’m inclined to give them their space, you walk right up and say hello. What joy you bring.I thought I’d be the one teaching you, but you teach me everyday. We took you to a festival last weekend where a band was playing music. You sprinted to the front and began dancing with reckless abandon. They loved you so much that they gave you a free copy of their CD so you could “jam” at home. I watched with such awe. When do we lose the urge to stop everything we are doing and just dance without any fear of judgment? I cannot remember the last time I danced in public without at least three margaritas in me.
You bring joy everywhere you go.
I cannot pretend as if every second of everyday is sunshine and roses. Today you completely lost it because I ate the last bite of your watermelon. Sometimes you fall down and scrape your knees. Sometimes we have to say, “no.” You claw at my neck and try to climb back inside of me when I drop you off at daycare in the morning. But even in the challenging moments, you bring joy. The older that you get, the more independent you become, but in these more challenging moments, you snuggle your face deep into my neck and attach yourself to me as if you were still an extension of my body. Before you, I watched other mamas comfort and calm their children in a way only mamas can. I know you won’t always need me in this way and it is a constant privilege to be your person.
Even when you’re not joyful, you bring joy.
In the car last week, you began to exclaim, “Round and round, Mommy, round and round!!” What is she talking about I wondered. We were stopped at a light so I turned around to look at you. You were pointing to a bus parked next to us. “You’re right, Ellie, the wheels on the bus go round and round!” I said. “Yeah!!! And Beep, beep beep!” you answered back. You exude joy over buses, popsicles on the porch after supper, washing the car, peeing in the potty, the dogs on your pillowcase, drinking out of a water fountain, building a block tower taller than you, ants crawling on the sidewalk, and seeing daddy’s car pull into the drive after work. I know it’s not realistic for an adult to let her co-workers know she successfully peed in the potty, but I never realized how little joy adults exude until I had a toddler. What a privilege it is to exist within your joy and to celebrate the daily mundane.
You remind me everyday how joyful life can be.
I don’t know at what age you will outgrow the exuberant joy and endless wonder of toddlerhood, but I find myself wishing that I could freeze you just as you are right now. The twos are far from terrible.
You are joy.
Life After Birth 