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Yesterday's birthday festivities were fabulous, despite having one monkey wrench tossed into the mix. Since Clara Jane loves Curious George, and a local movie theater hosts Crybaby Matinees on Wednesday mornings, it seemed like kismet: we'll take Clara Jane to her first movie on her birthday! There will be monkeys! And popcorn! And the comedy stylings of Will Ferrell!

Except for one problem: the people who operate St. Louis Cinemas have obviously never been around kids. If they had any grasp whatsoever on the tastes of the preschool set that attends Crybaby Matinees, they wouldn't have chosen the remake of "The Pink Panther" over "Curious George" for yesterday's show. Unless I'm missing something. Perhaps local-boy-done-good Kevin Kline is as big as Elmo in the under-five set. That would explain the I Love You to Death poster that mysterious found its way onto Clara Jane's bedroom wall.

Despite the disappointment of missing "Curious George", at least we can look forward to next week's Crybaby Matinee showing of "Firewall". While I might not understand Kevin Kline's toddler cult following, I totally get their lust for Harrison Ford crime thrillers. Will we ever be able to forget the tragedy of the Gymboree Riots of 2002 in response to Ben Affleck taking over Ford's role as Jack Ryan in The Sum of All Fears?

So, we went with our backup plan: a trip to the Magic House, which is always fun.

Except when you get there a few minutes too early and one is forced to spend one's birthday with one's faced mashed against the door, demanding, "Open the door! I see Clifford the Big Red Dog! Open the door!" But otherwise, much fun, followed by presents...

...and cake.

I'm trying to decide if I have anything profound to say about my baby turning two. I feel like I should, but mostly, I'm just relieved. If I've learned anything in the past two years, it's this: I am not a baby person.

When I was told that I might have fertility issues, I started researching adoption. I talked to a friend of mine who'd adopted, and one of the things she said adoption agencies routinely ask is if you picture your child as a baby or a kid. I asked myself that question constantly through the year between that conversation with my friend and Clara Jane's birth. The answer was always - always - kid. Then we went through that horrible 32-hour labor, and the breastfedding debaucle, and the infection that knocked me so flat I couldn't take care of myself, nevermind taking care of her. I wouldn't go back to those days for anything.

Now I understand why I always saw myself with a kid instead of a baby. This kid business? I love it. While it can be frustrating and exhausting, it's also the most fun I have ever had. This little girl, who adores lizards and the song The Noble Duke of York and chocolate, she makes me laugh, makes me think, and makes me feel everything more accutely.

And yet, there have been two moments in the past week where I felt the stab of not being the mother of a baby anymore.

On Clara Jane's birthday last year I wrote about the lullabye "All the Pretty Little Horses" from the CD she's listened to every night since we brought her home. I wrote about how the dark, minor-key instrumental touched the darkness I was feeling while drawing me to this tiny girl. A few days ago, Clara Jane was listening to Laurie Berkner's version of the song. It's still slow and a bit dirge-like, but brigtened by Laruie's vocals and the lyrics. I was so overwhelmed I stepped out of the room so Clara Jane wouldn't notice that I was crying. But instead of bringing back all the fear and self-loathing of two years ago, it felt like a victory. It felt like a mile marker indicating that we'd made it through the worst mountain pass, and we were fine.

A few nights later, Clara Jane was having trouble sleeping. When I checked on her, she asked me to rock her. She hasn't been rocked in months, but she knew that's what she needed to help her get to sleep. As we settled into the rocking chair and she tucked her head under my chin, I felt her relax against me. I wrapped my arms around her and it hit me: this might be one of the last times I rock her to sleep. With her head under my chin and her feet in my lap, she'll soon be too big. Nevermind the fact that she asked to be rocked. Once they can ask to be rocked, the times they require it become more and more rare.

When I was pregnant I had so many visions of late-night feedings, just the two of us snuggled into that rocker. But that never happened. When I got home from the hospital, I was so sick with infection that my body would completely shut down at bedtime. Nothing could wake me, and even if I did wake up, I doubt my body would have allowed me to get out of bed. So B. took the night shift, and stayed on it until she started sleeping through the night.

I held her and rocked long after she fell asleep that night, wiping my tears on her quilt because I missed something that I wanted so badly. Once again I found myself wishing that her infancy had been different, caught myself on that precarious line between bitterness and panic from the one thing I will never have with Clara Jane.

But I had that one night, with my big girl curled against me like a baby. In that night, I recognized what I lost, but also saw what is possible. I can't expect or predict the moments I will have with Clara Jane, because I'll only set us both up for disappointment. One spontaneous night, when she asks me to hold her, makes up for an infancy of missed late-night feedings, which I'm sure I would have taken for granted.

It's funny. I was watching last night's "American Idol" while I wrote most of this. When contestants got the news that they'd either made it to the final 24 or were going home, you know what most of them did? They called their moms, or sought them out in the crowd. They wanted their moms to hug them and hold them in a moment that was either one of their finest or one of their worst.

I might have missed holding my infant late at night, but I know I have a lifetime of holding my daughter. And from now on, I won't be holding her because she can't hold herself. I'll be holding her because she chooses for me to do so.