Fitz.

I am shockingly optimistic about his terrible twos.

He can be moody-broody. If looks could really kill, his stink-eye would burn his victim into charcoal so that the wind could dramatically blow them to pieces. I can't help laughing when he does it- here's the part where the hope comes in- and as soon as I crack a smile he feels so proud that he's made me happy that he forgets why he was mad in the first place.

I've never met a more forgiving child. A more cheerful child. A more grateful child. His most-used words are "thank you" and his most horrible tantrums end in laughter.

I'm sure he will get into a ton of stuff he shouldn't. I'm sure potty-training will present the regular challenge. But he'll look at me with those beautiful blue eyes and grin his goofiest grin. And I'll melt like a Popsicle on the fourth-of-July (which is a lot less painful than being turned into a charcoal statue and blowing away, but it leaves a bigger mess).