The night before three

Last night I said goodnight to a two year-old for the last time.

Last night I got home in time to let you eat two little candies and called it dessert. We hugged and we cuddled and we rubbed bonked heads and bandaged scraped knees. We pet the kitty (Not so hard! Not so hard!) and we fed the dog and we read the next chapter of Peter Pan.

Only you wanted to read it yourself. You traced your finger across the words like Thalia does, and called out each one; although the words you saw were not JM Barrie's.

I want to go make a quickly pee. And he wants to go make a quickly pee. And if I don't make a poop I can't poop but I can make a quickly pee but not both. And I want a Mo-Mo and a lo-lo and a lalalalala. And that word says Peter Pan! And that one says POOOOOOOP.

And Thalia and I both laughed through our tears at the exquisite humor of a two-year old for the last time.

And we cuddled and we had a sleeping contest and we had a second sleeping contest when that first one didn't work. And then we had a third sleeping contest only I counted to ten without the seven because you said you don't like seven and then you asked for another sleeping contest. And then you wanted to pick just one doll to sleep with -- just one doll to sleep with, only you came back with four. And your S pillow. And your milk.

And I rolled my eyes at a two year-old for the last time.

I told you that the sooner you would go to sleep the sooner you would wake up three. The sooner we could kiss you and sing happy birthday and give you a present. The sooner you would go to sleep the sooner it would be the morning.

You held my palm in both hands and pressed it to your soft, sweet cheek and smiled.

Last night I touched my lips to the sweet forehead of a two year-old for the last time.
Then this morning, you woke up three, just as I had promised.

How has it only been 1,096 days? I'm sure you've been in my heart forever.

Happy birthday Sagey. I love you down to your toes.