We have some snow here in the East. As it began to fall on Friday, the streets became so quiet that a plane going by overhead, one of the last before the brunt of the storm, roared louder than I’ve heard since we moved in last year. The deck started turning white, and soon the rest of our little swath of the world did, too. These weather events force us off the roads and into our homes. They ask for stillness so that we stay and keep others safe. They come no matter our plans—in our case, a second birthday party for H. As I ran around stocking up before the storm (that means four stores for a gallon of milk), I also picked up H.’s cream cheese-frosted carrot cake and a four-foot inflated Elmo balloon. Because ten toddlers or not, there would still be a party.

Any disappointment was all mine. H. wouldn’t know the difference; I was the one who wanted her to get to play with her friends as they pinned the nose on Elmo and got frosting on their faces. Of course, it matters most that they are all safe inside. There will be other times to get together and celebrate, as we did on Wednesday, her real birthday. As we lunched and she walked around the mall like such a big girl and played with new toys and ended the evening in a cardboard box on a skateboard, giggles in her wake as Ryan pushed her down the hall. All is well. A possibly derailed party is nothing like a problem. It is simply a want: for H. to have a big bash all about her. Her sister is coming and the family dynamic will shift again. We are ever grateful and hopeful that it will.

Last week, we had a scare. A possible complication that could lead to possible others. Days of waiting. The PTSD fished so easily to the surface. A second test and then a third. Ultimately, I am fine, which means the baby is fine. I got to see her to be sure, another chance I wasn’t going to get otherwise. I exhaled in that way I only can when I hear her heartbeat and see the flicker of her across the screen, something I hadn’t witnessed with my own eyes for two months, something that ceased so suddenly twice before and that I never went more than two weeks without seeing of H. So there is relief here in this quiet stillness. There is security under this temporary roof with my family as it grows. As the snow gathered, something else became clear—how much H. loves the snow. Outside, she wanted! So we bundled. Ryan turned his snowboard into a sled (Target sold out days ago) and Ruby followed. And I watched as my family circled the yard. Before this moment, I’d forgotten about the glee in a snow day, no matter our age. More than a decade ago, when I lived in New York City, I got snowed in at a friend’s house downtown. A place like Manhattan became still, too, and the next day we walked down the middle of Broadway.

Yesterday, we woke up to two feet and as more steadily fell, we turned to celebrating. It was still all about H. She won’t remember it but for the pictures… of the cake and the Elmo balloon, of the hats we wore and the whistles we blew in her honor, of her best friend whose family braved a blizzard walk down the street. Of the epic-ness of the day outside that stopped time, freezing this moment of her turning two. It’s not every day that an historic storm rolls in, that you see your child fall in love with an aspect of the natural world. And so arrives acceptance. It’s no longer about forecasts or holding out hope it will pass by. Whatever it is is simply here. It’s barreling down. There is nothing left to do but stay safe and keep warm, and, luckily for us, eat a lot of leftover cake.

Happy Birthday, H. I love you beyond. You are two! You are telling things to “come here” and taking our “hand” and “walking” us to wherever it is you want to go. You do not hesitate to ask for what you want, and use all the words you have. When those fail, you flop your entire body face first onto the floor. I admire that about you. You are polite beyond your years, too, if I say so myself, saying “Thank you, Mama” and “Welcome” and “Bless you” when we sneeze and the sweetest smile of an “OK” when I successfully decipher your want. You love our baby, hugging and kissing her belly home and playing your music. You give her a bottle sometimes (which is the cooking spray). Every single night, after bath and books and the bottle of your own, we snuggle in the chair I found in a Santiago antiques warehouse when I was just about as pregnant with you as I am now with your sister. Such hope in purchasing this chair, and all the hugs we have had in it since. You know this regular snuggle time and announce it, too. I burrow my face into yours and your tired laugh escapes. I hold close you and whatever collection of things you have selected for bed this night. No one tried and true companion for you. Instead, you pick the bin of lemons and tambourine you’ve also carried around all day, or three purses and a hat, or a cash register you hug as you fall asleep. Here at two, you are already so YOU. I am in awe of every square inch as you move through this weathered world. I am honored to bear witness and keep you as safe as is ever possible.

Today the sun is bright overhead and overground, reflected in heaps of shimmering white. The storm, as they say, has passed. It’s time to dig ourselves out and take it all in.