Jojo: Four on the 4th

Jojo, I can hardly contain myself.  You are four.  I think I've written before, perhaps when Marian reached this milestone, about how much I love four year olds.  It goes back to my time as a nanny for a precocious little four year old who asked questions about the craziest, and sometimes most touching, topics.  I already know, I'm going to love you at four because it's hard to imagine getting any better than three.  And there may not be many mothers of three-year olds who can say that sort of thing.

Oh, how could a little boy have been made any sweeter?  Or funnier?  Or more easy-going?  I call you our little Buddha. All the things I said about you last year hold true this year as well.  You are patient and kind and you have a sense of humor that's noticed by others ("Jojo is hilaaaarious" is one of our favorite catch-phrases. You don't seem to like it now but I'm not sure you know what hilarious means, and if you did, you'd probably like it just fine).

Your relationship with Marian has matured this year and it's been a great transition, even if it's required more intervention (sometimes the loud kind) from me.  You are no longer a tag-a-long brother, you've learned to assert yourself in the games you play and the videos you watch ("we have to agree!  We have agree about that!").

Your soul mate is still Mariam and the effect that you have on each other is noticeable to people outside of your families.  One of the craziest stories from this year: you and Mariam both went to drama class but at different times of the day.  The teacher (who happens to be Tanory, Mariam's mother and  very reliable witness to the event) had a "magic box" that was decorated wildly on the outside but contained only air inside.  Each child was supposed to imagine something inside; most kids talked about dinosaurs, fairies and other magical creature.  When the box came around to Mariam she simply said, "socks."  An hour later, your class arrives at drama and the box makes its rounds.  When the box comes to you you look straight at Tanory and proclaim that it contains socks.  I tell you, you and Mariam communicate on some random and cellular level.  It's wacky.

You are also a chatterbox. Whenever we get in the car to go anywhere, the questions and observations start flying.  I think most people would consider you a quiet person, but your Poppa and I know better.  You simply find so many things fascinating and seem aware that there's still so much to know. Your vocabulary is impressive and even though you still can't say "l" (it was mean of us to name Linden/Winden) a perfect stranger stopped me in the grocery store to comment on your use of language.  I should have told her you just practice a lot.

I cannot imagine a kid that I would like to squeeze and hug more.  You simply light a fire in my chest every time you reach out to hold my hand or give me a good night kiss.  If I could bottle you up and sell your "essence" I know I would be a millionaire. 

On Traffic Lights and Red Cards: Marian at 6

It's been a big kind of week.  I mean, a really BIG kind of week.  You turned six and became a double-big sister all the in the matter of five days.  Linden Thomas (our newest addition) will be getting his own blog entry--I hope--but I will say that it was never my intention to have children born on the same week.  In the future, we will have to take this up with Linden.

For nearly the entire year, you have spent more time away from home during daylight hours than you have spent with me.  This was hard to get used to at first;  our mornings went from fairly laid-back affairs, to a more military-style grab, eat and go, complete with me barking orders regarding shoe choices, tooth brushing and hair ties.  The pace of our mornings has something to do with the fact that you turned into the world's best sleeper this year and sometimes getting you out of the cozy comforter could be a challenge.   So, I have few complaints about the pace of our mornings because it means that at least one of us is sleeping soundly through the night.

In my last post about kindergarten I was pretty sure that there would be days you would throw a fit about going to school.  That never happened.   Perhaps the best part of our day, the walk to school, was never complicated by you digging in your heels and refusing to go.  Usually, you were digging your heels into a mud puddle, examining flowers or birds along the path or dragging a stick behind you slowly.  So while our walks to school were generally the best part of our day together, they were, by no means, peaceful journeys.  Usually, we would rush out of the house with me yelling, "we're gonna be late!  That bell is going to ring!"  You were motivated by a fear of the "third bell," we almost always heard the second bell ring from the bottom of the big hill below the school.  That meant we had exactly five minutes to get you up the hill and in the building before you received a late slip.  It became a point of pride for all of us (Joseph included) that you never were late to school on a morning we walked.  In fact, the two times you received late slips, we drove to school.   When your report card showed zero tardies for the year, you and I gave each other co-conspirator smiles--we had certainly beat the system.

It was such a strange thing to hand you over to Ms. Clayton and HVES without knowing what was happening once you walked through the doors each day.  I learned to trust and you learned to be as independent as any five year old should be.  And each day, when I picked you up for the walk home, I adjusted to the fact that the details of your day would come only in fits and spurts and when you felt like sharing them.  One topic, however, that you were always willing to engage in was that of the classroom traffic light.  Each and every day I would ask (or sometimes Jojo would): "so, who got on the traffic light today?"  A name being placed on the traffic light, even the green light, meant that there had been some infraction of classroom rules.  The list of names on the traffic light were fairly predictable, with the same names popping up on a regular basis.  But not once, in the entire year, did your name end up on the traffic light.

The fact that you were the model of good behavior at school is both a point of pride for me and, if I'm honest, a little disconcerting.  You see, here at home, things can get pretty ugly.  You roll your eyes, you ignore my repeated requests to stop running while simultaneously holding onto the neckband on Joseph's t-shirt.  You throw a fit during violin lessons (oh, Suzuki, how I love thee) and can be downright obstinate.  People tell me this is all normal behavior.  But at school, you seem to be a paragon of good behavior.  Mata and Nona assure me that if a parent has to choose between good behavior at home, and good behavior in public, you always choose good behavior in public.  And I know they're right.  But I also hope that you allow a little bit of that passion and persuasion to shine at school.  Your father would probably have a coronary if he found out that you landed on the traffic light even one time (there was an "incident" in the lunch room this year when you were sent to the Assistant Principal's office with two other girls.  She sent her "precious girls" back to the lunch room with the mildest of reprimands to listen to Ms. Jack--who I have always imagined to be a kind of ogre.  You shared this story with me a month of so after the fact.  I was greatly amused, Poppa was not).

Part of my concern about you being the quiet type at school stems from the fact that I think you have so much to share.   From your earliest days I have been deeply touched by your empathetic nature.  You hate to see people hurting, physically or emotionally.  When I point out to you that an action or a few terse words may have hurt a friend's feelings, I can tell it bothers you and you usually try to fix the situation.  You are still a peacemaker among friends--and I have no doubt this trait explains your general popularity among the kindergarten set.  You seem to be friends with just about everyone--from the alpha-girl, Dylan to the shy and sweet Liam.  I love that you can walk into a room and find a friend, after you've had sufficient time to observe, of course, something you still spend a lot of time doing.

And while he's only been with us a week and a half, I already marvel at your connection to Linden.  The smile on your face when you walked into the hospital room was radiant and right away you became a protector and sweet friend to our little baby.  You shaded the sun from his eyes, made over his tiny toes and generally seemed besotted.  Because I already know something about the kind of big sister you are, I can only imagine the journey that Linden will enjoy with you by his side. 

I don't know how much you will remember of these first six years as you grow up.  But I imagine there is some part of your brain that holds onto a feeling, if not the distinct memories.  My greatest hope is that your memories/feelings are ones of comfort, where the sounds of wild giggling and the sensation of running as fast as your legs will carry you, reminds you of this time.  If you remember one good night kiss when, with tears in my eyes I told you how much I love you, that would be enough.  You are so precious to me, even when your wild spirit and rolling eyes make me want to issue red cards every night for a week.  I wouldn't change a thing, sweet girl.

Joseph's Journey to Three

I won't dwell on the fact that I missed last year's birthday blog.  I've never quite forgiven myself for it so you can be quite sure that even though I am exhausted in a way that threatens to make me crazy, I will not be passing up the opportunity to write tonight, on your 3rd birthday.

If I could only write one word to describe you over the past two years it would be, simply: JOY.

You have been the sweetest, the gentlest, most affectionate and the easiest going little-guy these past two years.  So many things delight you and so few things get under your skin (really, there seems to be just one person who can do it effectively over and over again...).

You are so well-natured that nearly everyone that spends any time with you at all comments on just how pleasant you are.  The Indian ladies at YMCA "camp" beam when you walk in the door because they know you'll just happily play with the trucks and let them know when you need your snack.  Then you will sit contentedly at the table until you have finished.  Ms. Judy and Ms. Amy, your Rolling 2s teachers secretly let me know that you were their favorite kid in the class.  You have never had separation issues and usually send me out of the door by blowing a kiss and saying "see you later!"  I've even heard you tell other kids who are upset that, "Mommas always come back."  And when I come back to get you, the smile that spreads across your face as you rush into my arms nearly melts me into a puddle.  I even tried to get this reaction on video tape once, which of course didn't work.  I often take for granted the fact that I can drop you off just about anywhere with any one of my friends.  And, in my line of work, that's such a relief.  

You are eager to try new things; namely, things that involve swimming underwater.  We think that because you made the passage from inside to outside in a tub of water, you've just always believed you could swim.  This past summer, you even coined a phrase for a special swimming technique called "The Under Dog."  Basically, you launch yourself out of an adult's arms and swim under water until someone picks you out.  You never come up sputtering and always come out smiling.  You are adventurous on playgrounds (we've already had one ER visit thanks to that sense of adventure.  No stitches, but a small scar under your bottom lip to remind us) and believe that you can do anything that Marian can do.  Usually, you can.  You've just started taking choir lessons with Marian at church, even though you're a few years to young to really begin the lessons.  But Mr. C., the director of the music program, was shocked to learn that you weren't even three yet.  You listen and participate at least as well as most of the five year olds.

Marian is your best friend and the source of all aggravation.  The two of you play so well together, which is something I only really appreciated once she was in kindergarten and I was home with you for about two weeks.  The amount of time I spent on my hands and knees walking around pretending to be a cat or a lion or a dog was exhausting.  Every morning, just after breakfast, the two of you disappear into the playroom and laugh and talk and create imaginary worlds together.  I'm afraid I don't take the time to watch and marvel at the relationship that the two of you share.   But in the evenings, when I walk up the stairs and find the two of you all curled up in one of your beds, I do find the time to stop and be thankful.  In fact, I must have taken 50 pictures of the two of you alseep, sometimes holding hands, usually sharing one pillow.   We never had any of the sleep issues with you that we had with Marian.  You just happily go to bed, read a few books and drift off.  I think the difference is, you have her lying beside you and that's an incredible source of comfort.

Of course, every once in a while (15 times daily, perhaps) all hell breaks loose between the two of you.  I'm learning when to intervene and when to let the two of you work it out.    I'll never forget the surprise of hearing Marian run away from you the first time you chased her, probably trying to bite her, the fear and panic in her voice was real and intense!  I would say you hold your own very well.

 A few nights ago, you crawled into bed with me in the middle of the night, something that happens on an almost nightly basis still.  You always try to steal my pillow, which is why I have started to insist that you bring your own pillow with you when you come, but this night I was too lazy to get up and get yours.  So we spent the night sharing a pillow and you reached out to make sure that both of your arms were encircling my neck in a giant hug.  At first I was aggravated by the tight quarters and the constant touching.  But it occurred to me that you are not always going to want to sleep an inch from my body,  stroking my cheek and hugging my neck.  I decided to drift off to sleep with the sweetest little arms in the world holding me tight.  Even in the past few weeks, as you've approached the age of three, I've begun to notice that the spontaneous hug sessions and Momma-love are spacing out.  And I imagine that I won't always be able to count on the fact that when we sit at the dinner table and say what we're grateful for that your go-to answer will be, "That Momma's here."  But I am determined not to forget the way you melt my heart on a daily basis with your sweetness,  your affection and joy.

I love you Jojo.  I know that big changes can come when you turn three.  The world can get more frustrating, you can start to throw tantrums in grocery stores, you may refuse to eat all the good vegetables and fruits you've eaten with gusto these past three years.   And if these things happen, as they well might, I won't hold it against you.  Afterall, I've had three years now with the easiest and happiest kid I can imagine.  I'm due a few tantrums and fits.   But I hope that the person you've been these last three years says something about the kind of person you will be when you're 20, 30, 40.  I hope you will always find joy in every corner of the world, that you'll be anxious to try new things and never afraid to tell someone you love them --over and over and over again if they need to hear it. 

Happy birthday, sweet boy.  I love you to the ends of the earth and the top of the shower curtain.  Thank you, thank you for being born to me.

Kindergarten, Day One

When I was in either first or second grade, the teachers sent all of their students home with a little blue pamphlet.  On the front cover was a set of stairs, each one marked with a number 1-12.  I'm sure it was titled something like, "Stair Steps to Success!" or some other inane thing.   I remember, so clearly, looking at those stairs and knowing that I was going to be in school for-ever.  Each year seemed to last an eternity and I had a whole set of stairs to climb between now and 12th grade.

And here's what a change in perspective can do for you.  Today, you walked into that kindergarten room for the first time and I felt with a force equal to that of my love for you, that in a blink of an eye you would be all the way up those stairs and flying the coop.

There were no tears today, at least not as we said goodbye to one another at the door of Ms. Clayton's room (I'll admit that I did get a little choked up at the parent's coffee right after drop-off), but the emotions ran deep right under the surface.  You showed so much bravery and gumption that I couldn't help but believe that everything was going to be just fine.

In fact, the first thing you said to me this morning as you dove into my bed was, "Happy first day of day school!"  Realizing you had said something not-quite-right you then said, "I just like calling it that, it makes me feel better."  It was like bridging the gap between Silver Spring Day School, your preschool, and kindergarten could be made just as easily as changing a few words around.  Then you came downstairs and ordered an egg for breakfast, something we've been discussing recently is the need for a decent breakfast before school, which you ate without a lot of fuss.



I don't expect that every day will go so smoothly.  In fact, I'm rather bracing myself for a firestorm tomorrow.  You told me tonight that you planned to stay home with me tomorrow and then got pretty teary eyed when I explained that you would have to go to school.  When you crawled into bed, you took with you the little note that I had tucked away in your lunch bag and with tears (which I think just might have been real) you told me that it would really make you feel good tomorrow if I would draw a picture of the two of us together.  I'm no artist but I will make you a masterpiece tomorrow morning and I hope you will look at it and school and know just how much I love you.  I hope I've prepared you well for your walk up the "stair steps" but I do hope you take it nice and slow from here. 

When I Turn Five...

Sometimes this past year, when you were merely four, you declared with certainty that when you were five years old you would no longer need a Momma and a Poppa.  There are some days I believe you were right.

You are an independent, fiesty and determined little girl.  But, as we are now one week into this five year old thing, I am very relieved to find that, sometimes, when the stars are aligned just right, you still find comfort in a hug, kiss and "I love you so much" from a Momma.  Anyway, it would be a real shame to send you out on your own now because there would be so much I miss.

I love hearing you construct elaborate make believe worlds and the way you include Joseph in your adventures.  Sometimes, you even allow him to be the momma lion, taking care of you and growling at the dinosaurs that threaten to eat you up.  I don't even mind that sometimes I turn my head for just an instant and when I spin back around, every cushion in the house has been re-purposed to create a store, a camp site or a crash site.  You have a vivid imagination that spins on its own without input from me or anyone else. 

Just last month I attended what will most assuredly be the first of many graduation ceremonies.  And so much about what happened during the ceremony sums you up that I feel compelled to describe it in some detail.  But in order to tell that story I must begin with the horror that was the tricycle accident.

The last week of school, it was a Thursday and I was co-oping, you were out on the playground at the end of the day and all of a sudden I heard you screaming.  I ran over to you and immediately started looking for blood (I usually find it on the head, knees or elbows) but I didn't see it anywhere.  I made a visual path down your body until I landed at your ankle and then saw "the horror."  You had been sliced so deeply across the back of your heel that there was no blood, just a deep, deep gash into your Achilles.  I felt faint, of course, but picked you up and carried you inside so that someone else could take another look at the injury; because, as I told anyone that would listen, I could NOT look at it again.  Someone in the hall suggested that we were going to have to go to the emergency room.  And, without missing a beat, you turned 25.  All of a sudden you stuck out your little finger and yelled, "I am NOT GOING to HOLY CROSS HOSPITAL."  Yep, you called it by name.  When the word "stitches" was thrown about you had an ever-loving fit.  Not once did you complain about the inches long gash on the back of your leg.  So we loaded you up in the van, Ms. Lisa drove with us to the ER, and the two of you talked over the more uneventful aspects of your day.  Then, when we got to the hospital, you allowed me to carry you in without much fuss.  Every once in a while you would remind yourself that stitches were looming on the horizon and you would let out a bawl but for the most part you remained so calm.  I remember sitting there, watching you color a princess castle with Ms. Lisa, and marveling at the way you were handling it all.  I was only able to keep my composure because, somehow, you were keeping yours.

When the doctor came by to see the gash, he confirmed that you would need stitches.  That's when you threw your finger out and said, "I don't like this one little bit.  You tell him, you tell him I am NOT getting stitches.  Take me home right now."  In any other setting, it would have been funny.  But I was so proud of the way you were advocating for yourself.   And then I was just so sad that for all of your determination and verbal eloquence, we still had to get those damn stitches put in your leg.

The stitches were put in and we left on our trip to Colonial Williamsburg as planned.  Then, for the better part of week, I carried you around from point A to point B.  Every trip to the bathroom required assistance, every trip down the stairs in the morning was a challenge and I attended every day of school between the accident and graduation day just so I could help the teachers cart you around. That's why, when graduation day rolled around, I'd arranged for a small stroller that you could sit in and have one of your teachers push you down the aisle.  Imagine my surprise, then, when you came walking down the aisle with your class!  Honestly, why was I surprised...

There are a few things that are so awesome about you and some of those things also make it hard to be your mother.  You are fiercely determined to do things the way you want to do them.  Therefore, being the only kid pushed down the aisle was not going to work for you.  However, just seconds later, you proved that you don't mind being different when you were the ONLY kid not to walk up to the front when Ms. Melanee called your name to receive your little diploma/poem.  Apparently, you had told Ms. Melanee the day before that since you couldn't walk, she could just bring the diploma to you.  Nevermind the fact that you had just practically skipped down the aisle, you meant you were not getting up to get the diploma.  And then after the ceremony, I watched as your friends slung their arms around your shoulders and seemed to love just being around you.   I think in many ways, you were the glue that held that little group together this year.

There are also time when your generosity astounds me.  Poppa and I were recently at each other's throats about a gift card that went missing.  You were asking us over and over again what a gift card is and finally, we stopped bickering long enough to tell you it was a little card that was like money.   You left the room and a minute later returned with your piggy bank, offering it in outstretched hands to the two of us.  That was a very effective way to stop an argument and left me weak in the knees with love for you.

I am more aware, this year than any other, that we traveled some rocky roads together.  I know that you will become exactly the kind of woman I want to be friends with; but it's hard when that awesome woman is only five years old and I'm supposed to be parenting her.  I guess my hope for this upcoming year is that you find the world around you a little less frustrating and a little more magical.  I know it's tough to be little and feel so like you control so little.  But I sometimes wish you would just sit back and enjoy the ride, it will be over before you know it. 

And of course, there are big, big changes on your horizon.  In just a month you will begin kindergarten.  It's hard for me to fathom that someone else will spend more time with you than I do.  Five years is not a long time to spend with someone (especially when they're your kid) and I constantly question whether I have done enough to prepare you for this initial leap from the nest.  But if I know you, you will walk into that building with determination on day one and then you'll start running without looking back on day two.

It's been an awe-inspiring and challenging year.  And I am beyond relieved that when asked last week whether you would be needing my services anymore, now that you're five, you just rolled your eyes like that was the craziest question you'd ever heard.

On The Night You Were Born- Part 4

Sweet Girl,

From the day you were born perfect strangers would stop me on the street, take a look at you, and then say (with a kind of faraway look in their eyes), "it goes so fast." At first, I was annoyed by the interruptions, even a little hostile to the idea that someone would tell me how I was going to experience my time with you.

Oh little one, they were right.

How could it possibly be that tomorrow we will wake up and celebrate your fourth birthday? A few minutes ago I was changing your diaper and trying to snap up your onesie. Now you dress and put your sandals on the wrong feet all by yourself. You have ideas about fashion and food that every so often collide with my notions about the same and you've become a savvy negotiator. You have big ideas, you make up stories, you don't want me to stick around at play dates. All this happened so fast it makes my head spin. But I've always like hanging out with four-year-olds; they were my favorite age to babysit back in the day. What good fortune that I now have a live-in four year old!

This hasn't been the easiest year for your momma. We left Atlanta in September and moved back to the place you were born. It was a really, really hard move for me as I mourned the distance we would live from Mata and so many of our friends in Atlanta. I cried nightly about the fact that you would be leaving Glenn School and Anna Kate and Sara Harper. About the only thing that kept me glued together some days was the fact that you seemed to roll with all the changes so well. Packing your toys didn't faze you, saying final goodbyes to friends was a genuine, but not overly emotional, affair and you were excited about the possibilities in our new home. Your sense of adventure and flexibility got me through some rough days. It sounds crazy to say that I watched and learned from you; but I think that's what happened. I tried to see the exciting possibilities through your eyes, I got giddy when the potential of new, lasting friendships sprung up in our path and I tried to live in the present, with you as my role model. So thank you, Marian, for helping me through a tough time. And in the face of all my worrying, I sit here tonight writing from Mata's house (you're downstairs sleeping in her bed), preparing to send you to Glenn School camp tomorrow and gearing up for your birthday party with Sara Harper and Anna Kate tomorrow evening.

Since this blog seems to have turned into a birthday blog (alas) it seems like I should offer a broad outline of the past year. To say that you've spent the last year becoming more of who you are sounds odd but it feels right. When I look back and think about the year from two to three I see constant movement and bold steps forward in development. This year feels like the softer, gentler version of the year before. This is the year you put finesse on your language skills, built subtle interpersonal skills and discovered the ability to sit and entertain yourself for long stretches of time. I love to sneak into a room, or hide around a corner, when you're playing by yourself and just listen the worlds you create and marvel at your command of language. You often sound so grown up that it makes my heart ache a little bit.

You're still an avid observer of the world around you careful about jumping into new situations and meeting new people. I've stopped thinking of you as shy or bashful. Instead, as the woman who rang us up at Trader Joe's said this week, "it just shows that you have good sense not to talk to every person you meet for the first time." It doesn't take long to win you over, but you do take some time to watch and observe before you engage. Good sense, indeed.

You are crazy about play dates. Last year I wrote that every morning you woke up and wanted to know what we were going to do. This year, you wake up and want to know who you will play with. I try not to take it personally that you would prefer I not be present for your play dates. You have new friends at school and outside of school that have enriched our lives. You have become especially good friends with Naeem, also a newcomer to DC and the son of my new friend, Tanory. Naeem doesn't play well with every kid his age, he's what many old southern women would refer to as "a handful." But you, Marian, bring out the best in him. His parent's relief at having a friend who plays so well with him is evident every time we get together. I love that you have the patience and the skill to navigate a friendship that would be frustrating to many other kids your age.

Tomorrow we will have a dress-up/ballerina/pizza party at Mata's house. That's if you stop throwing up. You were feeling fine today, chasing Joseph around the house at full speed, when you suddenly stopped and starting puking. Later, through runny eyes you said, "I don't want to be sick on my birthday." Oh lord, please don't be sick on your birthday. The minute it was evident you were sick tonight I felt this incredible protective instinct kick in. I wanted to protect you from all the ill, from all the yuck and, most of all, from the disappointment of having your birthday party at camp and at the house tomorrow called off. This kind of desperate feeling is not unlike some of the feelings I felt in those first few days after you were born. It's a scary thing to hold a little tiny being in your hands and realize that you can't protect them from every cold germ, every sad goodbye and every bump and bruise along the way. But if you're lucky enough you get a kid who says, as you did tonight, "I don't want to make other people sick." If you're lucky enough you get a kid who can pick up where she left off with old friends and make new friends with ease. If you're lucky enough, you have a kid just like you.

I love you, Marian. If there's any justice in the world, you'll wake up feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for a cupcake.

1:23 on the 4th

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.