Gah, Piper is TWO!

(Alternately titled: The Obligatory Birthday Post)

Dear Piper,

     I am kind of freaking out right now-- mostly because it's 9:18pm (gasp!), and I am just starting to write your birthday letter for tomorrow.  I have been thinking about it for a while now, but maybe I thought I could slow down time and keep you from turning two if I procrastinated.  (Note to self: did not work).

     Who are we kidding though, child?  You are officially two in every way.  And by "every way," I mean that you are starting to try fun things like throwing fits.  Oh, the tantrums.  Luckily, yours don't last very long.  And because of how hilarious you look, I sometimes have to fight back laughter and force myself to get back into the quick-responding motherly mode whenever it happens.  I can't help it that you have gigantic blue eyeballs and gapped-teeth that make me smile.

    I can't end this letter without proper documentation of your weirdest/funniest habit.  Some kids have a lovey.  Some kids have a pacifier.  Some like to suck their thumb.  You, child, have a double whammy.  Sometime over the past year, you found your own "lovey" in addition to your thumb: your belly button.  It doesn't help that I rarely get everyone dressed many days, but the fact that you walk around with a thumb in your mouth and a finger in your belly button really kicks up our civilized image another notch.  When you are sleepy, the hand goes down the shirt immediately to find the button.  If I have the nerve to dress you in a restrictive outfit, I will surely hear about it.  "Can't get my button!"  Want proof?  Here goes:

[Of course I'm not embarrassed that my child looks like this in public...]

 [The button must be easily accessible]

 

 

 

 

 

[You pick the greatest outfits to go with your #1 accessory!]

 

 

     Piper, you bring us so much joy.  We love you more than words can say.  Now on your birthday, take a big bite out of life just like you did this fried meatball at the rodeo:

 

 

Happy birthday, sweet Piper.

 

     Love, Mom

 

P.S. You have exactly one year to rid yourself of the terrible two's.