Today you are two.
It's incredible for me to think back to a time, just a little over two years ago, when I was a little bit scared of you. Well, maybe not of you, but of what you were going to do to our family.
Close to three years ago, we were a family of four. We had one little girl, we had one little boy. We already had one of each- what more could we possibly need?
Then I found out I was pregnant with you. As the months passed, I got more and more freaked out. Not by any of the labor and delivery stuff, or even the baby stuff- I had already had two babies; I was a seasoned pro. No, what scared me was the thought of having three small children. Atticus would still be one when you were born, Adelaide had recently turned four. I felt like I was barely keeping it all together as it was- how on earth could I handle all that plus another baby? I was a little bit torn: happy because, hey- a baby! I love babies! But also a tiny bit resentful at how much I knew you were going to mess up my carefully balanced world.
Then, on September 21, 2010, you were born. It was a blessedly uneventful labor and a blessedly uneventful delivery. You were healthy and perfect, and we were thrilled. You nursed like a champ, and we loved you instantly.
You also started crying. And didn't stop for three months.
Oh, Caedmon. Those first few months were rough. Atticus turned two soon after you were born, and really began testing us- normal, two-year-old developmental stuff, but still draining for your Daddy and me. Adelaide was a pre-schooler and a pretty easy little girl, but still young enough to need help with most everything. And there you were, our colicky baby, screaming to be heard over all that.
Going from one to two kids had been a pretty smooth transition for us. Adelaide was two and a half when Atticus was born, but was relatively mature, and a pretty docile little kid. Having two kids turned out to be pretty easy. Having three was not.
I remember having to swallow my anger when, time after time, people would well-meaningly say to me, "The baby weight just falls off of you, doesn't it? You're so lucky." And I'd think, Yes, it's amazing how easily it falls off when you spend every evening running around and around the house, doing hundreds of squats a day, just to keep your colicky baby from crying all the time. How fortunate for me.
Because you, my son, were not an infant who liked to be stationary. I couldn't just bounce you around, I had to do what amounted to squats and plies to pacify you. And walking around the house? Forget about it. You required me to lope around the circle that makes up the first floor of our house, somewhere between a jog and a run in order for you to stop crying.
To be fair, you weren't the worst colicky infant I'd ever been around. You had your quiet, peaceful moments. They were just hard to remember when you wouldn't stop crying every evening.
Sometime around the three to four month marker, however, something changed. You changed. You went from this fussy, high-maintenance infant to a sweet, gurgling, engaging baby boy. And you haven't looked back.
Because you, my boy, are a joy. You are pure, unfiltered joy to this family. I miss you when you're upstairs taking a nap. I feel sorry for people who haven't met you. I could spend all day with you in my lap, just breathing you in.
You love your Daddy. We can't go up or down the stairs without you insisting we stop so that you can kiss the image of Daddy in our wedding portrait. You love Atticus and Adelaide. Atticus is the second person you ask for in the morning (after Daddy), and when you get hurt, you first ask me to kiss the place where it hurts, then you go to Adelaide for another kiss and some extra love.
You're a ham. I've seen you walk in front of groups of people, face them, clasp your hands behind your back, and sing the ABC's at the top of your voice. You often seem to know just how to make yourself as cute as possible so you get extra attention from the pretty girls who help in your Sunday school class. You love to give eskimo kisses.
More than anything, you've taught me that I shouldn't worry so much. God knows what he's doing 100% of the time. I just knew that you were going to be this extra person that we would have to try and fit into our lives, when what you are was the piece of our family we didn't even know was missing. And I love you in a way that is about as perfect as it can get this side of heaven.