Dear Little Man,

You were born two years ago today. I was in a bit of a drug-induced haze, but this is what I remember:

As soon as you were born, the nurses took you away from me to make sure you were alright. After all, it had taken two hours of pushing to get you here, and they wanted to check you over. I didn't get to hold you for twenty minutes after you were born, and I cried the whole time. When I finally did get to hold you, I was more than a little terrified for your sake, that it was your misfortune to be in my custody for the next eighteen years. You looked in my eyes right then, and it was like you knew who I was, and you were telling me you had complete confidence in me as your new mommy. I still didn't feel like a real mom yet, but I loved you more than anything right then.

Over those few short days in the hospital, I observed:

• You only cried for a minute after you were born, and then, it was like you realized there was a whole world to see, and you'd rather explore it than complain about your rough entry.


• You had your daddy's toes, the Carter pinky toes, and my nose.


• Your toes curled out rather than in when you got tickled.
  


• You were all boy, big and barrel chested, the second biggest baby in the nursery.
  


• You did not like cold wipes, and you were not shy about letting us know.


• You came into this world six days before my 20th birthday, and you were the best present I've ever had.