Almost Three
Clover is almost three, and I find myself asking quietly, sometimes out loud, if I am ready for it, for what this next year will bring, for how quickly he is becoming someone new right in front of me, for how time seems to move faster the more I love him. I wonder what we will do, where we will go, how we will mark the day, knowing that birthdays are less about the celebration itself and more about the pause they force us to take, the moment they ask us to look closely at who our children are becoming.
In the past, we’ve kept his birthdays simple and at home, little parties filled with familiar faces and easy joy, and this year will be no different in spirit. He loves a party, the balloons, the cake, the anticipation of it all…the way excitement builds slowly in him until it bubbles over in laughter and movement. I’ve never felt drawn to overwhelming him with gifts; instead, I love the idea of one meaningful thing, something chosen with care, something that will live with him rather than pass through him. But decorations, those I love. Making the house feel festive and playful, transforming our familiar spaces into something celebratory, something that tells him, today is special because you are here.
We’ve always had a theme of sorts. Last year it was airplanes, something he loved deeply then and still does now, though his interests are growing, branching, changing almost faster than I can keep up. This year, I’m not quite sure. Part of me wonders if instead of a theme, I should follow his energy, his vibe, who he is right now, in this exact moment. He’s very into choo-choo trains, their steady movement and purpose, the way they go somewhere with intention. He’s also become a little collector, a quiet pack rat of sorts, gathering shiny objects and small treasures and tucking them away in safe places, things that may seem insignificant to anyone else but feel important to him. I see so much of myself in that, the instinct to hold onto what feels meaningful, the way small things can carry so much weight.
Watching him become is breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once. Every morning, I wake to a face that looks just a little older, a little more sure of itself, and I feel both immense pride and a kind of grief I wasn’t prepared for, grief for the versions of him that pass quietly as new ones arrive. I love watching him learn, hearing the words he chooses, seeing the way his mind works, and yet I ache knowing that growth always comes with letting go.
I wonder often who he will become. I wonder if I am doing this right, if I am guiding him well, if I am teaching him what matters, if I am leaving the right impressions. I look back on my own childhood, on the moments that shaped me, the memories that stayed, and I try to recreate that feeling for him, the sense of being held, of being seen. I also look honestly at what was hard, remembering how my parents were with me, strict at times but always rooted in love, always guided by good intentions.
That is what I have for him, too, only good intentions. A desire to give him the best of what I know, to protect his softness while helping him grow strong, to love him fiercely and gently at the same time. He is still so little, still so open, and as we approach this birthday, I find myself holding both joy and sadness in equal measure, knowing that loving him like this means feeling it all.