I’m shocked to admit it, but we’ve made it two years. As I write this, the clock has hit 1:32 p.m. You have been out in this world for two years.
Two at two. Nuts.
It is Monday, May 28. Memorial Day. You were supposed to be Labor Day babies. I should have known you’d be in it to give me a run for the money from the very beginning.
Last year you celebrated your big day by sitting up by yourself for the very first time. It was a big deal. And we finally set forth on a path deemed “typical.” Two little boys running amuck. Smiles, laughter and learning.
No lasting effects of prematurity. You spent the year learning to crawl. To walk. To talk. (Although I still can’t really understand you.)
In two years, you have taught me how to let go of everything I once thought I could control. I’ve discovered how to smile at the absurd and disregard the concept of impossible.
Search – You continue to explore every new detail that may share some insight of the world. Your stubbornness and determination will serve you well. Thank you for sharing your secret smile – don’t ever feel forced to divulge what you know.
Destroy – Your smile and boisterous bounding energy bring joy to everyone around you. Don’t ever stop loving life. Your excitement is contagious.
We’ve come a long way. You’ll grow up faster than I care to admit. Look forward. Your past, your imperfect beginning, does not define you. I remember, but do not look back.
Today you are two. You are my million dollar miracle muppets. I love you.
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
– Robert Frost