Sometimes I forget you are only two.

I expect you to act older than someone who is just barely out of diapers and still sleeps in a crib.

I expect you to understand that bedtime means bedtime.

I expect you to listen the first time because I know you can understand what I’m telling you.

I expect you to be able to be able to walk and carry your backpack and put your shoes on.

But I realize these expectations only exist because you aren’t my only child.

If you were my only, I’d be happy to spend 22 minutes getting you dressed because there are no others to get ready.

If you were my only, I’d have more patience for your ever-changing palate and preferences.

If you were my only, I’d have more energy to play the one.more.book. game every night.

If you were my only, I wouldn’t hesitate to carry you and your belongings wherever we went.

You are not my only, but you are only two.

I’ll try harder to be patient when you just want to play a few minutes longer.

I’ll try harder to encourage you to be more independent but also assist when needed.

I’ll try harder to understand that sometimes, seven books are in order to wind down for the day.

I’ll try harder to realize that sometimes you just want to be held.

Because you are only two. And you won’t be two forever.

Soon, you’ll want to everything for yourself and you’ll be able to do so.

Soon, you’ll want to read on your own instead of with your old mom.

Soon, you’ll run ahead with all of your things and won’t look back to make sure I’m following you.

Soon, you will be much bigger than me.

And I’ll wish you were only two again.

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