FOX: Little man. In two weeks you will be a two-year-old! I haven’t planned a party or anything yet because I keep telling myself that you are still a baby: there’s no way you’ll be turning two any time soon. Even though I know this clearly isn’t true, it’s just easier to remain in denial about it. Your birth feels like it happened yesterday. Yet, at the same time, it seems like it was an eternity ago. While I’m convinced it hasn’t been two years yet, when I try to recall the details it all gets a bit hazy. I remember the warmth of your little body against my skin as the midwife plonked you onto my chest. I remember an enormous, overwhelming sense of relief. I remember you cried, but I can’t remember the sound nor how loud you screamed. I remember the besotted look on your daddy’s face when he held you for the first time. And, strangely enough, I remember the meal I had half an hour or so after you were born. Specifically, the taste of the orange juice they give you in those funny little plastic jelly cups with the tin-foil lid you have to peel back. And here we are, two years (or so the calender tells me) later. You’re a cheeky, precocious, sensitive little boy now. Still, you’ll always, always be my baby.