Joseph, it doesn't appear that I'm going to be able to stay awake until you turn one. We have traveled a long way over the course of the past two days and I think the road weariness has caught up with all of us.
Tonight we are back in Atlanta, with the exception of Poppa who just got off a plane in Washington, D.C. This is the town of your birth so it does feel right to be back on Zimmer Drive where so much of the action took place. Earlier this evening, when I had you on my hip on a trip out to the van to find our sheets, I decided to retrace a few of my steps from this time one year ago. Your Poppa, sister, Peanut and I took one last good walk just before we decided it was time to head to the hospital. Tonight, I held you in my arms as I made that same short journey up the street. I sang a little song as we went along -- you do like music -- and briefly told you the story of your birth. I thanked you for making the trip so easy on me and told you how happy I was that you decided it was time to come out and see your momma's face.
Your birth still feels like a miracle to me. It seemed one minute I was wandering through labor thinking you might never come and the next minute, you were practically here. I say practically because I remember quite clearly thinking, as I was pushing, that there was just no way this (meaning YOU) were going to come out. Many studies show that women are able to remember details of the births of their children with the same amount of clarity no matter how many years have passed since the actual event. I hope that this is true; there are a few memories that I would want with me at the very end. The birth of you and your sister are the two that I would hold onto with dear life. I can remember the sensation of the warm water lapping against us as I held you against my chest, the sound of you voice (loud!) and the joyful surprise of finding you a boy. I was nearly certain you would be a girl.
One year has gone by at the speed of light. I said just tonight that it feels like you've always been here, or at the very least you've been around ten years or so. But the fact that you don't say many words (other than "ut-oh" which was your very first and still your most distinct word) and you're a little unsteady on your feet (but you are most certainly walking more than you are crawling) betray the fact that you've only been with us a short while. Still, it seems like I've known you longer than this.
You are such a happy little person, already you seem to find it easy to be entertained by a leaf on the floor, the sound of a spoon banging on a table or whatever it is Marian is doing at the moment. She makes you laugh like none other and the sound of two children laughing together has got to be one of the sweetest in the world. When she does something that makes you laugh I think my heart might explode. Your smile is impossible to turn away from and your eyes smile as often as your mouth. Sometimes, when you are nursing, I will tell you have stinky feet just to watch the corner of your eyes crinkle up in laughter. You think that's hilarious. Sometimes, I'm actually telling the truth.
I've almost made it to midnight. But it's time to turn in for the evening because we have celebrating ahead of us tomorrow, a continuation of today's four-generations birthday party. I love you beyond any ability to put it into words. I will continue to try, however, each time I pull you in close and kiss your neck. You are my sweet baby boy and this year has been a gift (and sometimes, I'll admit, a challenge). You are mine and I am yours forever and ever. Happy birth-day, thank you so much for finding your way to me.
