Somewhere between the scattered pizza crusts, the Toy Story tablecloth, and the relentless clatter of tiny plastic toys, the boy turned two, a wild, unfiltered burst of toddler power that could bend reality if he ever figured out how to channel it.

He sat there today, sauce on his face like a badge of honor, studying his toys with the solemn intensity of a tiny scientist on the brink of a breakthrough. Meanwhile the adults hovered in the background, clinging to slices of pizza like lifelines, watching this small human tear through another year with the force of a meteor made of joy, sugar, and questionable sleep patterns.

There’s something surreal about a kid’s birthday party. This bright, manic little universe full of balloons, noise, and cartoon-eyed decorations smiling at you with unnerving enthusiasm. It’s a madhouse painted in primary colors. But in the middle of it all sits my son, this two-year-old cosmic wanderer, grinning at a toy tractor like he’s just discovered the meaning of life.

And maybe he has. Maybe the secret is right there in his hands. Wheels spinning, imagination roaring, pizza waiting patiently on the plate because adventure takes priority over lunch. He’s a creature built of curiosity and chaos, powering straight into the great unknown with no fear, no hesitation, and absolutely no regard for the structural integrity of the living room.

Two years ago he arrived like a thunderclap. Today he smiles like he owns the sun. And I swear, watching him, really watching him, feels like staring straight into the unfiltered, high-octane truth of what it means to be alive. Messy. Loud. Fast. Beautiful. Covered in pizza sauce.

So here’s to you, Rowan.

Year two in the books.

May your toys get louder, your imagination get wilder, and may your old man keep up with you long enough to witness whatever strange, magnificent storm you’re becoming.

Happy Birthday, kid.

Raise hell. Grow well.

The world doesn’t know what’s coming.