Dear John Paul, You’re two years old today. And you are every bit of two years old. You are into everything, and you never ever stop.  You are constantly at open speed, zooming around the house leaving a trail of destruction behind you. You love to make a mess.  You think it’s hilarious to turn the tv off while people are watching it, and you also think it’s funny to play in the dog bowls.  You splashed so much in the tub one night I had to hang the bath mat up to dry.  My walls have beautiful art at knee height from the night you found a permanent marker.  You broke my fantasy football trophy, and I’m waiting for you to fly through the glass panes of my grandmother’s china cabinet.  For a long time, the play pen was no longer for play – it was “baby jail.” You also throw things.  A lot.  And very well.  Your aim is spot on.  While I spy baseball and football in our future, I wait with baited breath for you to launch a milk cup through the tv. You’re always dirty.  I don’t know what you get into, but your face

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