Happy 2nd Birthday, Myles!

Growing Faster Than My Pen Can Keep Up

If you’re new to Raising Myles, Welcome!

I write letters to my newborn son, Myles, sharing my journey as a first-time dad and spreading the love I didn't experience myself. If you’ve been here before — thank you for coming back. If you’re new here, here are some good places to start.

• We Got Married Over the Internet

• Myles’ 1st Birthday

• For the Love of Water

• Your First Words

2 Years Old

Dear Myles,

I am writing this on my phone, with tired eyes but a full heart, right next to your bed. You’ve finally fallen asleep, and I’m trying to wait just a little longer so I can creep out of your room without waking you. Yes, that door could really use some WD-40.

This weekend we celebrated your birthday. We planned to have it in the park, and we prayed all week that it would not rain, but God laughed—He held back the rain all week and poured double on your day. But in less than an hour, the party continued right at home. Over 30 people squoze into the house, from your aunties to your teachers to cousins and more. You and your cousins played with all your toys, and the adults laughed like this was the plan all along. We ate burgers, hot dogs, baked beans, opened gifts, and while we sang you “Happy Birthday,” you sang too, like you had been waiting for this moment your whole two-year-old life. And of course, the weather cleared so much it looked like it had not even rained, and maybe that was God’s way of saying He just wanted us a little closer on your day.

I can’t believe it’s already been two years. It feels like just yesterday I was tracing your mother’s belly with my fingers, anxiously waiting to meet you. Just yesterday, I remember the first sentence your mother said when the doctor pushed your body—three weeks earlier than scheduled—into her arms: “My baby,” she cried, and you were crying too, just before you felt her warmth. How I thought the umbilical cord would cut like butter. I remember how my fingers were surprised they’d have to work just a little harder to chew through the thickness of the cord.

I remember that drive home, after the nurses had just wished us goodbye, and I almost wanted to ask if they were coming too. You mean they just hand you the baby after four days of helping you? What is this madness? That drive felt like the longest ride of my life. And how can I not mention the sleepless nights—how the moon bled into the sun, how the days ran together, twenty-four-hour days erased by every four-hour feeding: milk parts, bottles, diapers, diapers, and more diapers. And somehow, we survived it with less sleep and more love than we thought we had to give.

I even remember the first time you wriggled from me when I tried rocking you to sleep. You left me in the room alone, turning back smiling, warning me you would have left even faster if you knew how to make your legs work. And that day you walked, I remember the sound that leapt from my throat—like the bass of a tenor turned soprano. I never knew a waddle could make me cry.

How have the days passed so fast? Wasn’t it just last week we started daycare? And you cried every day for months like we were never coming back. And now your feet take off running before I even put you down. Sometimes at drop off I have to remind you to say, “Bye, Daddy” Sometimes I even have to ask for a hug. How I used to complain about co-sleeping, but now I just miss and crave for you to fall asleep in the car, just so I can remember what it was like to hold you in the crook of my arm.

Wasn’t it just yesterday we prayed for a child? And here you are, two years later, in full beauty. I never knew I could love anything more than I loved your mother until I met you. How, for the past two years, I’ve been questioning what I was even doing in life before you. How, for the past two years, tired eyes and a full heart have carried us. I’ve been trying to capture every single moment, but you are growing faster than my hands can write; yesterday you were babbling, and now all of a sudden it’s like your words know how to hold hands.

How our stern directives have turned into federal negotiations—just to avoid the bomb of a tantrum, “Go, Now!” has become “Do you want to hop or skip to the bathroom?” I didn’t know I’d be taking orders from you this soon. Is this what they meant by time having wings? Is this what they meant when they warned us we’d miss you being small, miss the days you couldn’t walk?

I hate to say they were right. I miss those days so much.

Happy Birthday, Son.

And I know I say it each and every time, but I love you—and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Love Daddy

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And if you are on Substack, please restack this letter and recommend it so I can share this love with the world.

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Let me know your thoughts:

1. How do you hold onto the sweet little moments, even when life feels hectic?

2. Have you ever had to get creative just to avoid a toddler tantrum? What worked? Asking for a friend.

3. What’s the funniest or sweetest thing a toddler has ever done that caught you off guard?

4. How did you or how will you celebrate your birthday this year?

5. What should I write to Myles about?

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Want more of Myles’ Letters?

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• Have you ever been Cooking in the Bathroom kind of tired?

• Check out Carrying the Gift, Holding the Love