Two, I love you.

I know age two is hard. I've heard it a thousand times over; and it's been ingrained into my system that two is just a precursor to three, which is, in its own right, a fresh hell demanding to be conquered when all systems scream no.

And I know we're only six days into it, but oh... I need to hop softly onto this fragile limb and report how insanely and unbelievably delightful two has been so far. Two, yes, and all the days leading up to it.

I'm not saying I'm any stranger to tantrums, misbehavior, sneaky secrets, or fierce, unwarranted independence - I am not, I assure you - but Margot, in her purest form, is just one of the sweetest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.

She has no qualms about barreling through a crowded room with a small footstool or doll stroller, bumping into grownup shins or rolling over grownup toes. She always smells faintly of peanuts even though she carries her distinctly perfect she-smell. She still sucks her thumb to garner peace amidst chaos, and still vocalizes the questions she wants to be asked, then responds to your offer as though it was your idea all along:

"Are you hungry, mama?"

"Margot, are you hungry?"

"Okay."
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"Hold you, mama?"

"Want me to hold you, babe?"

"Okay."
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She routinely removes her socks & boots when we're driving anywhere, in spite of our current mantra being PLEASE LEAVE YOUR SOCKS AND BOOTS ON WHILE WE'RE DRIVING; and then goes, "UUGHGGHHHH!" as soon as I open her car door and see what she's done - thereby so considerately saving me from having to do it. (Thanks, girl, but I still so need to UUGHGHGHHH when these sub-zero temperatures are freezing my fingers as I claw around the backseat for strewn footwear, then re-attach them to ten tiny little toes on two sweet feet.)

If I decline any request of hers, she says, "Okay, mama; maybe later."

I believe there exists a delicate balance of time together and time apart in order to make any relationship good and well and ultimately lasting; and while I undoubtedly go through pangs of missing her while I'm at work (always), and equally so, bouts of needing to fly off into the sunset when we're home together, I'm so grateful for this rhythm we're in. We're making it work, and I feel so blessed to call this girl my own.

This babe of mine, nary a babe at all anymore, is aging rapidly yet steadily and I'm still trying to figure out how I ever cared to do life before she existed.

Two whole years.

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.