Dear Harrison,
Today, you are two.
Today, you are wild & full of life & rambunctious, with this gleam in your eye that dares life to be bigger, more colorful, more wonderful. In the past year, you have grown from cautious steps to full runs, from little squeals to belly laughs, from bottles to cups & spoons & forks. Little friends to climb ladders with & kisses goodnight, prayers in the evening & saying “ooooh yeah!” whenever you find something you love. Like trains & school buses & Lightening McQueen.
Today, you woke up with footed jammies & bleary eyes, hugging a stuffed monkey & giraffe. I sang you songs in the car & we shared bagels for breakfast & tonight, you will smash cake all over your face while we laugh & snap pictures to freeze you in this wild moment of life. We will have bath time bubbles & bedtime stories & I will hold you close, marveling at how fast the past year & two years have flown, worrying that the next year will go too quickly for my little momma heart.
I wonder where you will reach & where you will climb in the coming years as you tell me to take a deep breath & plunge head-first into life with you. I watch you methodically piece together a puzzle or blocks & feel certain you will be an engineer. Then you protest a bath & coerce Daddy into one more wrestling match & I think for sure, you will be a lawyer or salesman or politician. Then you hug your momma & kiss her soundly & I know that you will be an amazing husband & father, so I think of the home you may raise with me on the fringe & my heart twists.
Some say that home is where your mom is. I hope that you always know me as home, & always know that you have a home. Whether it’s in four walls around a Christmas dinner or a simple “I love you” over the phone when you are grown & hurting, whether it has been five minutes or five years, you always have a home with me.
But today, you are still mine. & I am all yours.
I love you, every piece of you.
love,
Momma
Harrison, two years old.






















