For last year’s post, click here.
Dear Bubba,
You are funny, kind, stubborn, energetic, exuberant, sensitive, perceptive, brilliant, creative, witty, hilarious, maddening, tall, mischievous, strong, and genrous.
You are seven today.
You are everything we could have dreamed of and hoped for.
You are also a total mystery sometimes. In some ways the gone-in-an-instant-infant-time is so easy: keep the person alive is pretty much the goal of each day. Obviously, throw in some love and affection and all that, but yeah. In retrospect there’s not a lot of life lesson-y, give-and-take with someone who can barely hold his head up. But now you debate, question, fight back, and we’re on our toes to make sure we’re leading by example (ie teaching patience but without being so impatient with you) and helping you find your way in this world. I hope that we as a family are giving you roots and wings: the solid foundation of home and family mixed with independence and confidence in yourself.
Speaking of babies, you officially no longer even remotely smell like one. Like, not even right after a bath. You’re all boy, and that means the faint smell of feet and a batting helmet is your new signature scent (unlike mine, which is usually whiskey tinged with regret) but hell if that stops me from burying my face into your neck with each hug and kiss you let me steal AS LONG AS WE’RE NOT IN PUBLIC I MEAN, GOD, SISSY, YOU ARE SO EMBARRASSING. And long gone are the days of me giving you piggyback rides and picking you up or even having to bend down to hug you. It won’t be long before you’re looking me in the eye and, likely, towering over me. And as much as I miss snuggling that sweet-smelling baby, I love shooting hoops, talking about Star Wars, and walking to Starbucks for hot chocolate and soy lattes with the boy – the fully-formed person – he has grown into.
Happy Birthday, Bubba.
All my love,
Sissy
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