Dear Haashya,
You’re TWO! And if anyone thought the hurricane would calm down after its first year, let me confirm — you’ve only picked up speed.
Your second year has been a masterclass in turning everyday life into an adventure. You’ve gone from baby babbles to a full-on performance artist with sound effects, dramatic “Oh ho!”s, and the unique ability to do the exact same mischief repeatedly — as if to say, “Let’s run that scene again, Dada. With more emotion this time.”
Let’s get this straight: you still aren’t speaking in full words, but your expressions? Oscar-worthy. Each object you touch becomes a new quest. Each mistake, a theatrical tragedy. You look at us with wide eyes and gasp, “Oh ho!” — sometimes while still doing the exact same thing that caused the mess. That’s dedication to the craft.
And while you still haven’t uttered a proper sentence, you’ve managed to speak volumes — especially with your anger. Previously, I had only one source of righteous fury in the house (hi, Mom). But now? Oh, now I have two. And your mealtime tantrums… boy, they deserve their own Netflix series.
“Haashya, eat your food.”
“No!”
“Okay, I’ll feed you.”
Intense toddler side-eye
I’ve become a part-time dad, part-time food diplomat. I sit between you and your mom like I’m hosting a tense summit — "Let’s negotiate three bites of rice for one spoon of curd, and no further hostilities."
Your giggle, Haashya — it’s magic. It bubbles up from your belly and bounces off the walls like sunlight on water. Whether it's peekaboo, your mom’s silly voice, or simply the cat sneezing, your laughter fills the house with joy (and slight fear, because it's usually followed by some chaos).
You also have a slightly suspicious love for anything that spins. Standing fan? Obsessed. Car wheels? Entranced. And bigger fans? Hypnotic. You climb into my lap with laser focus, point at the fan, and just sit there admiring its rotation like a future engineer... or a tiny cult leader.
Also, you still hate my specs. Every time I wear them, you squint suspiciously like I’m impersonating your real dad. Then comes the snatching, the smudging, and the triumphant throwing — all while giggling like a mad scientist. Please stop. I need them. Unlike you, I can't identify objects by licking them.
Half your room is now a vehicle museum. Cars, trucks, ambulances, fire engines — if it has wheels, you want it. You play with each car like it's a precious new treasure. If someone gives you ten cars at once, you enter a magical state of toddler nirvana. You don’t need food. You don’t need sleep. You don’t even need us. Just wheels, noise, and floor space.
But I beg you: please don’t touch my Hot Wheels collection. That is Dad’s territory. That Mustang? It's not a toy. It’s a legacy. I see the way you eye them like you're planning a grand heist. Stay strong, son. Stay on your side of the toy border.
Ah yes, your dear friend Ms. Rachel. You follow her videos like a devoted student. You mimic her claps, nods, and even her emphatic expressions. Sometimes I catch you clapping along with the screen, then turning to us like, “Did you see that? I nailed it.” It’s adorable. Also slightly terrifying how much you've memorized. We now measure time as "Before Ms. Rachel" and "After Ms. Rachel."
As you step into year three, I can only imagine what’s coming next. Probably more wheels. Maybe actual words. Hopefully fewer food fights. But if there’s one thing I know for sure — life with you is the wildest, funniest, most beautiful storm I’ve ever known.
Happy birthday, Haashya. Keep spinning, keep storming, and keep being you.
Forever your middleman, biggest fan (literally and figuratively),
Dada
