Today my son turns one year old.
He’s progressed through crawling to walking, bottles to finger foods, from crying to talking. He’s kept me up all night and slept with me on the couch after work. He’s tried my patience and I’ve tried his. He tries to blow me kisses when I leave and gets tickled when I come back home.
He laughs at my singing and I laugh at his babbling. We talk about important stuff like how to steal the dog’s toys and why dog’s toys are so much better than boy’s toys. We ponder what tastes better, bananas and strawberries or peaches, and why. We listen to music and this is his favorite song, sure to make him throw his hands up and squeal every time he hears it. I’m not sure what he likes so much about this particular song (though it is one of my favorites as well), but it puts a smile on his face.
That’s my boy.
He’s been here a year and I can’t remember the twenty five of mine that came before it, or what I was doing with my free time all that time before he came to me.
I love you, son. Happy birthday.