Today you are two. I just got home from the grocery store with donuts, broccoli and a Dora coloring book. Your three favorite things.
You rise in the morning asking for (in no certain order): Chawlie, Daddy, Maddie, and pictures. Some days you still take two naps (this is payback for the first 12 months of your life when you considered sleep optional). You finally tolerate the car as long as you have your lovey and titi (how “binky” became "titi" we do not know). You will eat just about anything, especially if it is covered in BBQ sauce, A1, Ranch, ketchup, or marinara sauce. You point to your bottom and say, “Poopy” when you’ve done just that. You say, “Ow, ow, ow,” the entire time your hair is getting brushed. And your hair. You have ringlet curls. When wet, it is halfway down your back, but it springs right back up. It’s the thing strangers compliment us most on about you (and your bright blue eyes). Most days you cry if we have to leave you with a sitter. Or if we leave the room. You are still pretty attached to momma and start most of your requests with just that. “MOMMA!” By far, “No,” is your favorite word. “Clara, can I give you a million dollars?” I ask. “NO!” you say. My favorite thing you say is “Daddy’s truuuuuck,” which you love to ride in. You still have an umbilical hernia and suffer from frequent ear infections, both things that will most likely require surgery this year. You are learning and constantly testing boundaries and sharing with your sensitive brother Charlie. Hearing the two of you laugh together is easily my favorite sound in the entire world. You can be exhausting. But to know you, to be around you, is to love you. Your whole face smiles. You want to do everything independently, including the things you shouldn’t like walking in the parking lot without holding a hand. You do not have a lot of fear. I just hope I am always there to catch you. You adore dogs and music, the pool and the beach, your family. You run and don’t walk. You gallop and wiggle. You like writing lists, preferably on lists that I’ve already written. “Touch it?” you ask when it’s something you know you can’t have. "Come here," you say when grabbing my pinky, my thumb, my shirt, to get me to come with you. “I do it,” we hear a lot. You are kind to your friends and teachers at school. You go to bed happy, talking yourself to sleep after requesting a little back scratch. “I nov you,” you say as we close the door behind us and let out a sigh. We nov you too, Clara Louise.