Happy Birthday, Spencer!

Dear Older, Stronger, Louder, Heavier Spencer,

Your daddy and I (and quite a few other people) love you so much.  You are sweet and adamant and sensory seeking.  You give hugs and open mouth kisses one minute and throw yourself into backwards ariels on the bed the next.  As your little personality blossoms and your language helps us understand more and more of who you are, I'm shocked by the amazing continuity I've observed.  So much of who you are has not changed one iota since the day I met you.  You've always had a flare for the dramatic and a fairly short fuse--I have no idea from whom you inherited either of those traits.

You kept us on our toes the day of your birth.  You decided to pull some sort of physical gymnastics when it was time for me to deliver you, and as a result, your heart rate plummeted (perhaps gymnastics are best reserved for the days you are not full-term and tethered to an umbilical cord).  All sorts of machines beeped, and people ran in, others were told to leave the room, they flipped me over, stuck an oxygen mask on me, and I thought, "Well, this is it.  They're going to cut me open right here and yank that baby out."  Thankfully, they got you back to where you needed to be.  Interestingly, this was just the first of many physical maneuvers by you that has scared the living daylights out of all those around to observe your antics.

After letting you "rest" for a while in utero, we tried again to deliver you safely.  You didn't want to rotate around so that your head would face a favorable direction for being born, and you won.  The doctor (and probably God) finally succeeded in convincing you to rotate halfway around, and we all had to agree to disagree and just get you "born!"  To this day, I'm in awe at the poetic foreshadowing in the commentary by the obstetrician in response to your refusal to rotate.  I will never forget when he looked at me and said, "He's certainly going to have his own perspective on life."  

It was quite disturbing for a me, a woman with some child-care experience to speak of, to watch my baby scream himself purple because he was having his diaper changed, or being bathed, or being put in clean clothing, or being held by his father.  A. little. dramatic.   Truly, to this day I feel like not much has changed.  But really everything has.  In twenty four months you've gone from a completely helpless newborn to a little boy who runs and talks and loves and sings.

You had fun at your second birthday party.  Unlike last year, when playing with toys was very low on the list compared to taking over the world via gross motor acceleration, you've truly spent hours playing with your new toys.  Your favorite new toy of the day is Backpack.  You opened it early on in the process and held onto it tightly no matter what else you unwrapped.  You've been playing with all of your new things, but it's obvious there is a special place in your heart for Backpack.

One of the cutest things I've seen you do to date happened the morning after your birthday.  I walked in to see you helping one of your new "dog dogs" play your new piano.

You really enjoy seeing what components of each toy are compatible with each other and with other toys.  You are convinced the stop light from your Little People car wash is the perfect size to sit on top of the mechanic's head.  And, apparently, you're right.

Just like last year, every toy you opened had to be opened all the way.  Someday you'll understand how inconvenient this is.  Unlike last year, when you were running laps around the room showing everyone each newly opened gift, you sat fairly still, much more focused on the actual toy and what it could do for you.   Not that the running has come to an end!  You had engaged in plenty of running and bouncing outside at the beginning of your party--maybe that was the difference.

Unlike last year, when you refused to even be served a piece of cake, you ate a little bit of lunch and then answered, "'Kay," to my inquiry of whether you'd like a cupcake.  Unlike last year, when you preferred to be held by your Mommy in a room full of loving relatives, you happily sat in your chair and worked on your lunch and cupcake for a good seven minutes.

Unlike last year, we were unable to trick you into wearing any sort of headdress.  You didn't care if this was your birthday or that I'd bought adorable dog-ears to go along with your dog-themed party.  You were NOT wearing them.  I didn't particularly blame you, because headbands give me a headache.  But your Nana did try a few more times on her own--to no avail.

Just like last year, we have no idea what new adventures the next twelve months will bring; but your dad and I are so humbled that God chose us to be with you along the way.