Loved You From the Very First Day
It's green out here. Not an avocado green or even an Avada Kedavra green. It's just . . . green. I think it is nice to be able to look at a colour and simplify it without the poetic claims of likening the green to emeralds or a frog or something natural and ridiculous. But that's just me.
If I were to create a simile about the green surrounding me, I would have to say the green is like the grass underfoot. Then again, I'm just stating the obvious because it is green grass I am talking about. Freshly-mowed lush green grass that you apparently think I smell like. Thanks for that compliment, by the way. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend you think that's the case because I spend so much time out on the Quidditch Pitch. Which, you know, is true and all since that's where I am right now and for most of my days as a Holyhead Harpy Chaser but that is all going to come to an end rather soon, if all goes according to my plan.
You and I are the proud parents of two adorable bouncing baby boys. Well, one is bouncing, the other is a baby. They're both boys, though. And that's about all they have in common personality wise.
James Sirius Potter is a four-year-old troublemaker. I believe I've said that before but with him, I cannot stress that fact enough. He's proud and valiant and noble and his favourite Muggle hero is Superman. He likes the whole idea of saving the world and fighting for the greater good. His personal ethics are outstanding: he knows wrong from right and always picks the morally correct answer in situations. But he's a mischief-hunting-prank-pulling-trouble-making little scoundrel. And his favourite colours are red and gold, if that tells anything about where he'll be Sorted at Hogwarts.
Albus Severus Potter is the complete opposite of his older brother. Two years younger, but so much wiser. Albus is an introverted, observant toddler who thinks before he acts or speaks. He looks like a carbon copy of you while James favours more of his late grandfather and the earlier generations of male Potters. While sweet and thoughtful, there is a little devious streak inside Albus – most likely cultivated and encouraged by James. There is a calculated cunningness inside his two-year-old mind but he isn't selfish or stubborn at all. He's just Albus: vigilant and pragmatic. And his favourite superhero is Batman.
And the two of my sons together – plus the chore of having to keep you in line from time to time – is making me feel like there are grey hairs on my head even though I know that's not true. I'm in my late twenties and much too young to be going grey. But being a mum and an international travelling pro-Quidditch Chaser is taking its toll on me which is why I am stepping into the Head Office of the Holyhead Harpies to turn in my official letter of resignation.
It's for the best. My children need me to devote my time solely to them, and my Quidditch glory days are a sacrifice I can make for the growth and development of James and Albus. I can always pick up a broomstick again but I'll never be able to regain the days of the childhood of my two sons.
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.
Life with you and the two boys is everything I could ask for. You followed through on your promise of buying a home for me on the beach, and during the summers we go to our other house, a quaint little cottage on the shoreline of Greece overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Sure, the Greek economy is in shambles but the view of the sea is priceless. You train our two little rascals to be Quidditch stars, and more often or not I see James chasing after a Quaffle while Albus flits about the premises, presumably in search of a Snitch.
Once a month, we troop over to the Burrow so Mum can fuss over our boys and we can say hi to the family. There are too many aunts and uncles; nieces and nephews; sisters and brothers; original family and extended family; and cousins for me to keep track of or remember all their names. It's a good thing Weasley's have the trademark ginger hair; otherwise I fear I might not even remember who my own siblings' children are. Then again, the red hair makes it awfully hard to distinguish whose children are whose.
Once-a-month-Sunday-brunch at the Burrow is always pancakes – I make sure to leave out a few chocolate chips for you and the boys who seemed to have inherited your obsession with anything chocolate. And then, of course, the infamous Weasley Quidditch tournaments occur later in the day before everyone has to return to their busy lives. Thank Godric nobody uses a Pygmy Puff for a Quaffle anymore.
James and George have hit off extraordinarily. My oldest son is the tester for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes newest products – given that I approve the product before James tests it out of course. I'm not quite fond of the Bubbling Snot Rockets but I might be persuaded to let James try it out sometime in the near future. For now, though, I only approve of Weasley products that do not bubble or pop or could cause damage to the person using it. Which is, you know, basically all of the merchandise.
Albus is more interested in following my father around and questioning about all of the Muggle artefacts lying around the Burrow. My youngest son's favourite words these days seem to be either "No!" or "Why?" and both phrases are steadily utilised every time Albus opens his mouth.
Both my sons are the sun and stars in my sky. And you will always remain the superhero that flies me up above the clouds despite sleepless nights tending to our children or long hard days at the Ministry.
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I'm pregnant again. I never thought I could be after the frightening experience of falling into a coma and the massive amounts of internal bleeding when I was carrying Albus, but by some miracle, I have been blessed with another child.
The Medi-Witches have told us it's a girl. Already, you and I have her name picked out. Actually, we've always had our daughter's name picked out.
I can't wait for the day Lily Luna Potter enters the magical world.