Wuv.

It's funny - as person I've come to develop expectations of how certain things will go in my life. I think that's fairly normal. You  have a routine. You have past experiences to base your feelings on - and, for the most part, you don't really expect to have those feelings completely turned on their head. Maybe that's called being glib. Or jaded. Or cynical. But I had nearly thirty years of past precedent in my wake when I became a parent. That's like reciting the alphabet every day of your life - until your child comes along and replaces a good portion of those letters with stuffed animals and sneakers. There's no point even trying to understand it - it's such a vast departure from the routine that you can't even attempt to comprehend it. It's not even a language. That's parenthood. Everything I thought I'd feel was different. What I thought I'd be like. What I thought my days would look like. Sure, there's some overarching routine practices - breakfast, lunch dinner...dinner, tubby time, storytime, rock-time, bedtime. But those little details - how could I have anticipated the details?

Yesterday I read a blog post a friend had written - complete with a picture of a mother next to her pre-tween son with the caption "You may have outgrown my lap, but you'll never outgrow my heart." And I held it together - until I recounted it to my husband later that evening. Buckets 'o tears.

Because my two year old little boy is most wonderful, talented, funny, active, supercalifragilisticexpealidociously special little boy in the world. And boy does he have an opinion. He'll say things like "Me watch tv with no pants today, Mummy." And I'll watch, bemused, as he strips his pants off, proudly climbs on the couch to watch Super Why or Bob the Builder and sigh and say "No pants tv time." (the undertone being BEST.DAY.EVER.)

Yes, my little man, you have quite the sense of humor.

Everything is a struggle. You don't want to take a bath. Then we can't get you out. You don't want to put on your pajamas. Then we can't get you out of them. And sleep is for wussies. You could go forever on no sleep as long as you had books, your favorite stuffed dog "Wipey", and space to run. But you don't run alone. We are coaxed into running with you - up and down the hall - as super hereos with arms outstretched. Or spinning like helicopters. Or dancing or skipping or jumping or leaping. And the drama - the endless drama. You must already be practicing your Oscars acceptance speech because you ham it up like nobody else. You have a tremendous slow demise you re-enact over and over again. Spinning and wailing until you collapse on the floor and emerge with a clever smile..."Oh...me broke me bum!"

You have a newly developed pout - which sneakily appears whenever you can't get your way. A pushed out bottom lip of despair - your blue eyes get big and glassy, you hang your head and make sure we've watched the pout form long enough before you crash to the floor - hands over eyes - in a manner that can only be described is "Goodbye cruel world!!!" or "OOohhhh the humanity!"

You spend a lot of time telling us about everything. You have your own little dialogue that is endlessly entertaining. "What's dat sound? Oh, the garbage truck. He come here." "Where lights go? Oh, it dark. Lights go off." Better yet are the conversations your toys have with each other. Firetrucks with mail trucks. Elmo with Rock Raccoon. Your Dad and I will often listen to your monitor long after we've put you down for bedtime and listen as you sing and play and create an entire world amongst your stuffed amigos. You may not want to hear this - but that's something you get courtesy of your Mum. I was the queen of imaginary worlds. I guess that makes you the prince.

And after your long, dramatic, action packed, superhero day comes to a close - you and I read a book (or four) and I turn off the light. As of late, you've gotten into the habit of "rock-time". At first I was fairly certain that this was just an effort to push off sleeping just a little while longer. I've let those misgivings fall away. At rock-time, I take you in my arms and we sit your rocking chair - just like when you were only a few months old. We sing songs. You sing to me. I sing to you. The current favorite is 5 Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. Your interpretation of that includes a sing song rendition of "Monkey - Jump - Bed - OUCH MY HEAD!" Funny though, the other day you asked for a lullaby. You nuzzled your head against my neck and said "Turtle-loo-loo song, Mummy." I had no idea what this was until I ran down my laundry list of old songs and realized you were asking for "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra." A song I sang to you endlessly as a little baby - because that's what my parents always sang to me. "Turtle-loo-loo." And almost every night now you and I sing that song until you concede that it's bedtime and I lay you down.

Not long ago I lay you in your bed, gave you Wipey the dog and kissed you softly on the head. I whispered "Good-night" and turned for the door. Then you softly asked, "Mummy?" I turned around and through the dark I saw you smile - "Mummy...I wuv you."

That's it. That's the moment where all the routines come flying apart - the alphabet you've always known crumbles into nonsense and the world turns upside down. My son told me he loved me - seemingly such a small, silly moment - but it takes up so very much space in my heart. You said it for no reason at all. And now you say it all the time. And every single time my heart wells up to the rafters.

There may be a time that you're too big to rest on my lap for rock-time. But you will never - ever - be too big for my heart.