Well, here’s a photo from ten years ago, right about now:
That small, red-faced fellow was, well, small and red-faced, and a few hours old. And his dad could finally hold him too.
There were these massive thunderstorms promised and flood warnings and all kinds of things, and my mother made it in a few hours later, right before lots and lots of flights were cancelled. The boy was born at home in the middle of the night, after less than 3 hours of actual labor; ever the all-or-nothing kid.
The manchild’s grandpa Ed came too, briefly, a little later, and sat with us doing what he always did…
(he’s spinning silk)
There were massive thunderstorms, and floods, like I said… and in the back patio, the calla lilies bloomed. Calla lilies always make me think of the boy being born, now.
Soooo tiny. Even tiny feet.
Now, his feet are the same size as mine, which means I’m permanently out of socks, because he steals mine and then wears them outside with no shoes and ruins them. His shoes — which can generally be found with ease by tripping over them on the stairs — are the same size I’ve always had to buy my Chuck Taylors in.
He stands to my shoulder. He is 2.82 times taller than he was 10 years ago today, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but when it’s the difference between “20.5 inches” and “4 feet 10 inches,” it’s a lot.
He is like his mother, and his father. He reads all the time, is stubborn beyond belief, obsessive about his interests, and cannot imagine why other people don’t share his passions; perhaps if they were just told more about them? He’s outgoing to a fault like his mother, but at times, like his dad, he’s his own best company. He’s too smart for his own good, and he has no clue when to shut up. I’m no help there at all.
Happy birthday, kiddo. I’m super proud of you.