Trying to kick this blog off right, let's start with a birthday!
I hear a lot, from other people with birthdays near Christmas, that it's the worst time to be born. The issue, it seems, is that family likes to roll your birthday and Christmas into the same event, and therefore you don't get a proper birthday.
I'm waiting to hear that one from my son, who is 7 years old today, 4 days before Christmas.
Because he was due the 8th of December. This isn't my fault.
But 7 years ago he arrived, disrupting everything like a rambunctious puppy that eats your home. That child didn't sleep through a night for, oh, somewhere between 13 and 18 months. He spent the first 6 months unable to sleep anywhere but on my chest, with me sitting up in bed.
But once he could walk, his world changed. Our world changed. He became so happy, as if the first 9.5 months he'd just been held back from the world he wanted to see. No more 13 hours straight of crying. No more only resting when being bounced and walked around.
Now, 7 years later, he's a phenomenal young kid. He can read. He's excellent at math. His favorite part of the day is having his dad read books to him. They've read The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings and they're almost through the 4th Harry Potter book.
He tells stories, constantly. I make stabs at writing and although I do my best, I'm outpaced by this tiny, brilliant mind.
He wants to be a scientist. He wants to be an astronaut. He wants to be a cop.
He wants to be an Engineer Astronaut Cop. That's amazing. Now you want to be an Engineer Astronaut Cop too, admit it.
As sad as it is to realize my little bundle of rage and fury, my tiny, bald baby, my happy, bumbling toddler, is gone forever, the little boy he's grown into is a delight. He makes us laugh every day, is always up for an adventure, and I never thought I'd have to beg one human so often to stop talking about Minecraft. I'm proud of who he's grown into, and can't wait to see the man he becomes.
So happy birthday, bitty Trex. I promise to do everything I can to always make your birthday a separate event from Christmas and though you're not getting that god damn Hatchimal the TV told you to desire, I know you'll have a grand day anyway.
And it could be worse, child-mine. You could have one of the rare February 29th birthdays. Gasp.