Dear Hannah,

You are two! I am amazed. I am proud. I am in awe of my beautiful, wild, calm, sweet Hannah.

How can I describe you when all I want to do is watch you, with my jaw and heart dropped open. How does one describe a little girl who carries a little truck in one hand and a doll in another. Who is so attached to her blanky and yet so completely fearless at times. Who is so independent, and so in love with her mommy.

How do I describe my love for you? I can’t. It’s too big, too endless. Instead, I will tell you about you at two.

You are tall. You are strong. You are beautiful. You are fast and athletic. Your big, calm eyes have turned from blue, to hazel and now perhaps brown. You have just mastered the art of jumping with two feet firmly in sync. In fact, you can pull your feet up high and deliberately land on your bottom. I am no longer afraid of you jumping off high places, like I once was. You have learned to be wary of heights and can handle stairs safely, with a parent’s watchful eye.

You like your babies. “Pink Baby,” “Purple Baby,” and “Jo-Jo.” (But know we not to give you the OTHER pink baby, which you for some reason refer to as “daddy’s pink baby.”) You sleep with them at night, and also with your panda bear. We heard you this morning saying goodnight to them all. When came in you had them all lying next to each other, tummies down and looked to me with a proud face. You used to put them good-night by placing them all between the crib rail and the wall, face toward the wall. I think they must be more comfortable in their new position.

You like your little cars and those silly McDonald’s handheld computer games that you call your ‘ipods.” You like only one video. A 1990s concert of Barney and Friends at Carnegie Hall.

You love your blanket and your thumb.

You love cuddling with your mommy. Every 10 minutes for 30 seconds. You love holding my hand when you eat.

And you love playing with your Dad and sister.

You wake up grumpy, but go to bed singing lullabies with me like you are in a German Biergarten, rocking back and forth. You first ask for “Bye Baby” (Rock-a-bye Baby), then you ask for “Boy” (Danny Boy). Finally we sing a very long version of “Goodnight Hannah” sung to the tune of Good-night Ladies. This is when I understand the world through your eyes, Hannah. You sing goodnight to all the people you have taken into your heart. “Noo-night Rachel,” “Noo-night Rachel and Hannah’s Daddy.” And also goodnight to every friend, their parents, their noses, their books. And good night to me, “Hannah’s Mommy,” you say looking into my eyes. And you teach me how stongly we all belong to each other. Hannah’s Mommy. Mommy’s Hannah. Rachel’s Hannah. Hannah’s Daddy. Hannah’s Nay-Nay. Nay-Nay’s Mommy. We all adjoined and connected in these interesting ways.

You are independent. You run when it’s time to be with a babysitter or go to preschool. You reach the door 20 steps ahead of me and start clammering to play. When your little best-friend, “Nay-Nay” is visiting with Maria (”Nay-nay house”), you don’t want me very close to you. I think I must cramp your style. If I get too close you hold out your hand like a traffic guard and say “No!”

You are brave. You are only afraid of your shadow sometimes. “Shadow nice” we tell each other, as you cling to me with trepidation. You can hug big bears and go back for more.

You are talking, putting four and more words together. “Hannah make it, paper baby, Mama” you say, showing me a drawing you made, a scribble that perhaps is a baby. “Did it, Mama!” You say again, pointing to the paper with excitement.

You started crawling at six months, walking at ten months. You were a climber (wiping sweat from my brow). A hummer. You always hummed a little tune to match the vibrations of your running as you ran across the flour. You were in tune with the earth, with your world, with your physicality.

I watch you Hannah, in awe of everything you are that is different from me. And then I get stunned each time I find an old photo of me at your age and see you in my eyes, in my expression. How can that be?

It has always been that way, Hannah, and I hope it always will be. You defy categorization. You can not quite ever be captured.

When you were first handed to me you looked like a weathered war general. A few hours later you were all cleaned up and we were alone in the hospital room. We looked at each other and the world stopped turning. Your eyes so beautiful and calm. My gorgeous girl.

I have a feeling that’s how it always will be. I will have those moments. The world will stop as we look into each others eyes.

And then it will always start again, and I will have to sit back and watch my amazing, sweet Hannah.

Thank you for two wonderful years.

Hannah’s Mommy loves Mommy’s Hannah more than words can capture.