You're two years old today, and daddy asked you if you wanted a cup of coffee.
You said, "I don't like drinking coffee. I like drinking water."
I'm so amazed by your brilliance, your giant sentences that seem too big for such a tiny girl. They are yours, though. You are full of big ideas, like counting to twenty and telling me, "I'm not tiny girl. That's silly."
The best part about you is EVERYTHING.
I remember the day you were born. The doctor didn't show up for our c-section. I waited and waited in hospital gown as time went by. I was sure I would meet you by seven, and then it was eight and eight thirty, and finally he showed up, shook my hand and said, "Hi. Sorry I forgot about your c-section."
I started to say, "That's okay," but it felt weird. It was okay, I guess, but how could anybody forget about the birth of my little girl? Daddy's family was at the beach. My father didn't know me well enough to be there, and Grammy was at home with Scouty, staring at her phone, waiting for a text from Daddy saying, "Here we go." It felt like your daddy and I were the only people on earth, like the rest of the world was sleeping and this was the first day of our lives.
You were a tiny, beautiful thing. I knew what it would be like to hold you. I draped you over my shoulder and your pretty little face fit perfectly against my throat. You cooed and slept, and slept, and slept. We were all alone on a quiet island.
And now you're all grown up. You can jump and swim with your "noggles" on your eyes. You have a best friend, your big Sissie. When it's time for bed, you tell her, "Hug! And kiss!" and I feel like maybe the world isn't a good place, but my world is.
You make the world a good place, and that is a VERY big thing for a tiny girl. But maybe you're right. You're not tiny girl, that's silly. There is a whole world in your big brown eyes, you are a universe.
I love you.
Happy Birthday, very big girl, Louisey.