Happy Birthday Sam

Among my many regrets of parenting, perhaps the biggest (although most superficial) is what a horrible memory-keeper I am. Unlike his cousins Jack and Tommy (who have calendars which chronicle the first time they made eye contact, drank from a sippy cup, and got their nose wiped, etc. etc), one day poor Sam will have to grapple with the severely poor job his mother did in capturing his momentous events in photos or journals. I do really feel bad about it, and I’m going to blame my mom for the bad example. (Probably her only mistake as a mom.:) And also I will comfort myself with the fact that I am living proof that one’s ego can survive without a baby book. Anyway, the real tragedy of this whole thing is that everyday I think at least two hundred times, “Sam. You are hysterical. I really need to write that down.” And I rarely do.
So today, Sam, two days after your second birthday, I want to make myself stop eating potato chips, cleaning breast pump parts, and stalking random people’s facebook pages to figure out what is actually in style (because I have no clue), and I want to try to remember.

Sam, it has been the greatest joy of my life to be your mom. We are so similar, from the big hazel eyes and round cheeks of your face, to the tantrums you throw when you don’t get your way, from your passion for tornadoes and french fries and reading and animals and parties and cooking and life.
You love people.I know this because of how bored and miserable you are at 3:30 when all you’ve seen is lame old mom, how you tell random people, “Hi” on walks, and ask me, “His name iiiiiisssssss….” whenever you want to know who is mowing our lawn or serving our fries. When you someone you love comes to visit, you turn around and jump like a bunny away from them. It looks funny, but I know it is because you are so happy they came. You love your daddy, every one of your grandparents, big driver “cyubs” and pretend cooking, pretend drumming, pretend driving the car.
You remember everything. You told me my phone number, you know more lines from the truck book than I do, and you will always tell me “I don’t want to” because that one time you saw a bratty kid say it on TV. Nothing makes you laugh as much as Samules, paps, and big doggie. Now you poop on the potty all the time, because you get “a whole bowl of marshme-yos and to hold dad’s cyubs.” Really, your pronunciation is impeccable, except for a few words which are so incorrectly adorable we will never, ever correct you. Sometimes I say them wrong, too, because I don’t want you to stop. Like computader, banananana, piananano, a-nogger, or every word with an “L” like yook, yove, and yike. We yove YOU, Sam. Also I’m not going to correct that you call breasts “hearts.” It’s probably better that way for now. 🙂
People are continually amazed at your flawless golf swing, your speaking in paragraphs, and that you always seem to do whatever Jack tells you to, even though you have at least three inches and five pounds on him.
You say the FUNNIEST things. Just in the last week, you named a turtle “Doug Smartt,” said a garden worm was doing his exercises, prayed you would ride a bulldozer, told Aunt Julie she was a pretty cool guy, and frequently asked Ty, “what’s going on, baby Ty, how you been?”
You are such a dreamer. I can’t wait to see what you become, whether you do end up riding a jet plane, playing golf on TV, driving a car and winning a trophy, or riding the moon, like you’ve told us you would.
I hope you never stop talking yourself to sleep, pulling up chairs to help me cook dinner, asking to “go Grammy’s house,” or loving to play the fifth hole of the Peninsula from start to finish with me as your caddie.
God already has answered so many prayers for you. Frequently, we look at you, and marvel. You will forever be my living, breathing, laughing, gabbing, squealing example that, as your name means, “God hears.”
Sam, you are the best little boy. We love you always! Love, mom and dad

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