If I could only write one word to describe you over the past two years it would be, simply: JOY.
You have been the sweetest, the gentlest, most affectionate and the easiest going little-guy these past two years. So many things delight you and so few things get under your skin (really, there seems to be just one person who can do it effectively over and over again...).
You are so well-natured that nearly everyone that spends any time with you at all comments on just how pleasant you are. The Indian ladies at YMCA "camp" beam when you walk in the door because they know you'll just happily play with the trucks and let them know when you need your snack. Then you will sit contentedly at the table until you have finished. Ms. Judy and Ms. Amy, your Rolling 2s teachers secretly let me know that you were their favorite kid in the class. You have never had separation issues and usually send me out of the door by blowing a kiss and saying "see you later!" I've even heard you tell other kids who are upset that, "Mommas always come back." And when I come back to get you, the smile that spreads across your face as you rush into my arms nearly melts me into a puddle. I even tried to get this reaction on video tape once, which of course didn't work. I often take for granted the fact that I can drop you off just about anywhere with any one of my friends. And, in my line of work, that's such a relief.
You are eager to try new things; namely, things that involve swimming underwater. We think that because you made the passage from inside to outside in a tub of water, you've just always believed you could swim. This past summer, you even coined a phrase for a special swimming technique called "The Under Dog." Basically, you launch yourself out of an adult's arms and swim under water until someone picks you out. You never come up sputtering and always come out smiling. You are adventurous on playgrounds (we've already had one ER visit thanks to that sense of adventure. No stitches, but a small scar under your bottom lip to remind us) and believe that you can do anything that Marian can do. Usually, you can. You've just started taking choir lessons with Marian at church, even though you're a few years to young to really begin the lessons. But Mr. C., the director of the music program, was shocked to learn that you weren't even three yet. You listen and participate at least as well as most of the five year olds.
Marian is your best friend and the source of all aggravation. The two of you play so well together, which is something I only really appreciated once she was in kindergarten and I was home with you for about two weeks. The amount of time I spent on my hands and knees walking around pretending to be a cat or a lion or a dog was exhausting. Every morning, just after breakfast, the two of you disappear into the playroom and laugh and talk and create imaginary worlds together. I'm afraid I don't take the time to watch and marvel at the relationship that the two of you share. But in the evenings, when I walk up the stairs and find the two of you all curled up in one of your beds, I do find the time to stop and be thankful. In fact, I must have taken 50 pictures of the two of you alseep, sometimes holding hands, usually sharing one pillow. We never had any of the sleep issues with you that we had with Marian. You just happily go to bed, read a few books and drift off. I think the difference is, you have her lying beside you and that's an incredible source of comfort.
Of course, every once in a while (15 times daily, perhaps) all hell breaks loose between the two of you. I'm learning when to intervene and when to let the two of you work it out. I'll never forget the surprise of hearing Marian run away from you the first time you chased her, probably trying to bite her, the fear and panic in her voice was real and intense! I would say you hold your own very well.
A few nights ago, you crawled into bed with me in the middle of the night, something that happens on an almost nightly basis still. You always try to steal my pillow, which is why I have started to insist that you bring your own pillow with you when you come, but this night I was too lazy to get up and get yours. So we spent the night sharing a pillow and you reached out to make sure that both of your arms were encircling my neck in a giant hug. At first I was aggravated by the tight quarters and the constant touching. But it occurred to me that you are not always going to want to sleep an inch from my body, stroking my cheek and hugging my neck. I decided to drift off to sleep with the sweetest little arms in the world holding me tight. Even in the past few weeks, as you've approached the age of three, I've begun to notice that the spontaneous hug sessions and Momma-love are spacing out. And I imagine that I won't always be able to count on the fact that when we sit at the dinner table and say what we're grateful for that your go-to answer will be, "That Momma's here." But I am determined not to forget the way you melt my heart on a daily basis with your sweetness, your affection and joy.
I love you Jojo. I know that big changes can come when you turn three. The world can get more frustrating, you can start to throw tantrums in grocery stores, you may refuse to eat all the good vegetables and fruits you've eaten with gusto these past three years. And if these things happen, as they well might, I won't hold it against you. Afterall, I've had three years now with the easiest and happiest kid I can imagine. I'm due a few tantrums and fits. But I hope that the person you've been these last three years says something about the kind of person you will be when you're 20, 30, 40. I hope you will always find joy in every corner of the world, that you'll be anxious to try new things and never afraid to tell someone you love them --over and over and over again if they need to hear it.
Happy birthday, sweet boy. I love you to the ends of the earth and the top of the shower curtain. Thank you, thank you for being born to me.
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