What a difference a year can make.

Twelve months ago, you had only two reasons for doing anything: 1) It made you happy; 2) It made us happy.

Now you're so much more ... complicated. Independent. Needy. Fascinating. Frustrating. And you seem to see us the same way.

We certainly haven't made things easy for you. We moved out of your first home and set up house in a rental; now we're preparing to move yet again. I quit my night job to pick up more freelance work and take classes, which meant you had to spend time regularly with a sitter. You started preschool.

And then there was that whole pregnancy/baby brother thing. We'll get to that later.

Considering all we've thrown at you this year, you've held up remarkably well. You greeted each change enthusiastically. A new house? Cool! Lots of room to run around. A new sitter? Cool! Someone new to play with. A brother? Cool! Someone to sing to.

You've grown so much. Well, not physically. The official weigh-in is in a few weeks, but you don't appear to be much bigger than you were a year ago.

But you seem so much older. Last April, you were starting to speak complete sentences. Now, you easily carry on conversations with adults. If I had a quarter for every time a grownup declared, "He speaks so well!" we'd actually have a college fund started for you.

You want to know how the world works. You try to figure out what trucks are carrying, to identify traffic signs, to test the controls of the car (eek), to learn the names of the roads on the way home.

Your imagination has blossomed. You search for monsters in the redwood trees out back, check the engine in the printer, make airplanes out of everything. You make connections I wouldn't think to suggest. You want to understand clocks. The other day you asked what time it was, then ran to the digital clock on the stove. "I'm gonna go see the clock. What does the speedometer say?" You love cars. Both the movie "Cars" and real cars. You point out types you recognize: Daddy's car (Jetta), Mommy's car (Mercedes) and Matthew's car (Prius), then explain how they compare to the car you've ridden in: "That's like Matthew's car! Except it's red, and it has different tires. But it's quiet too."

You've become an equal partner in relationships. The kids I used to invite over for playdates with have become your friends, and you are always eager to see them. On restless days, you put your hand on my shoulder and lean in close: "Maybe my friends will come to play today? What are we doing after lunch? Maybe we can go to Simon's house?" And their parents are friends too. You think nothing of handing a book to another parent and plopping in their lap expectantly.

We're so happy you've continued to be an eager traveler. This year you visited New England again, spending time with family and meeting cousin Devon, and Costa Rica, where you delighted in discovering how fun a warm ocean can be. (Not at all like the frigid NorCal waters you tested in the summer!) We made a red-eye drive to Disneyland to celebrate this birthday, and you were too excited to sleep much either coming or going. You have started throwing up after airplane descents, and always on me. I'm hoping you outgrow that.

You are struggling to understand rules, and you are quick to seize upon inconsistencies. You know we don't want you running out of sight at the pizza place to check out the video games, and when one of your friends bolts in that direction -- usually with a parent giving chase -- you turn to me indignantly to protest. You've learned that no usually means no, but sometimes things are open to negotiation -- and you're not bad at working out fair deals.

You've proven a quick study with puzzles. I'd heard about boys having stronger spatial relationship skills, and now I see it and marvel. But you're good with words too. You've memorized at least a dozen books, including a bunch of Curious George tales and Eric Carle classics. On your birthday, for example, we were stuck in the car with few toys and no books. But you recited "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," missing not a word.

We have had more than our share of disagreements over the past months. We've seen more tears out of you in the past year than we did during your first 12 weeks of life, and believe me, that's saying something. Sometimes I feel like I'm dealing with a 13-year-old girl trapped in a preschooler's body, like when you'd ask politely to have some cheddar bunnies and then, when the request is promptly fulfilled, fling the bowl and howl, "I don't want cheddar bunnies!!!!" Of course. How could I have been such an idiot? Sigh. You have such a good drama-queen cry, you run to the mirror to watch yourself melt down. I'm not kidding.

The tantrums peaked in the crazy first weeks after Finn joined our family. The pregnancy wasn't much fun for either of us. Too often Daddy came home from work to find us glowering at each other, barely speaking after a long day of psychological tug-of-war. I hope you can understand that I'm working on my patience just as you are working on yours.

We're grateful that you have, so far, directed your angst at us and not your brother. Indeed, you've been delightfully kind to Baby Finn, taking on a sometimes parental role: singing lullabies and fetching his pacifier when he's distressed, eagerly standing by for his baths, dropping to the ground to share tummy time, amusing him with renditions of "The Wheels on the Bus." You've thrown a few things at him, but not nearly as much as we feared. And often your bad behavior is linked to good intentions. Lately, for example, you enjoy startling a sleepy Finn with an ear-piercing shriek. Then you try to play with him. Just this weekend, you scared him awake and then sat down beside him, singing a dozen songs you selected from your "songbook" -- actually the hotel services directory. And Finn cooed happily and grinned the slobbery grin he reserves just for you.

Because you can be so sweet, so amusing, so wonderful to be around. Some of my favorite memories of you this year include looking for monkeys in the Costa Rican rain forest, running in circles with your friends after pizza playdates, sneaking chocolate "bullion" and blaming it on a stuffed Curious George, "reading" book after book aloud to yourself, doing "my naked" in front of the mirrors during your nighttime pajama change, wearing your firefighter hat to water the plants, stomping in puddles and blowing dandelion puffs, climbing into our bed in the wee morning hours, and singing all the time.

I no longer believe in the terrible twos. We had some rough times, and I don't want to pretend they didn't happen. (I still feel bad about that time I swatted your butt, but man, you were being a twit.) But I enjoy discovering your complex, expanding personality. Most days I feel you bring more light into my life than I do into yours, and I thank you for that.

                                                   Love,

                                                   Mommy