Three years ago, I found myself in a hospital bed with a fetal monitor strapped to my belly, ultrasound gel oozing from the sides of it, and scared to give birth to my first child at only 19 years old. Your heartbeat beating ever-so gently. Your father nervously and patiently waiting for his buddy to arrive. And both your grandmas so excited to meet their first grandchild. Ultimately, relieved only 11 hours and three pushes later to a 7 pound 12 ounce baby boy.
Little did we know how much of a little handful you would become - now 3 years old and full of fire. Every day, your body stretching out. Angles and planes revealing from the chunky baby curves that they once used to be. Your cheeks, once downright plump, are narrowing. Your legs, honed by two years of walking, then running, the jumping, then climbing, and now leaping, grow longer and skinnier by the minute. Your hair, falling into the perfect curls, thick, and glowing of red, blond, and brown forever growing as it gets into your eyes.
You drink in the sights and sounds of our world as if its juice through a straw. Saying clearer and clearer complete sentences. Now, even other people can understand you and no longer need a translator. You can move quickly through the house, pumping your arms as you say, "Mom, I go fast!" as you decide which toy to play with next, how to make your space ship out of legos, or how much damage control you can do by distracting your little sister. And then you go faster outside, driving your Dodge Ram, riding a bike all on your own, and getting your hands dirty in any dirt in sight.
You're a mini cruise director, narrating everything you do and see, while also seeking affirmation - saying "Dad at work, right?", "I wash my hands after I pee and poop", and "You put 'yotion' on my body after the 'showa'?" You're also the tiniest drill sergeant, barking orders and offering quick assessments - saying "Read me this book", "Play drawing with the chalk with me", and most insistently, "Cuddle me to go night night!" And how could I ever refuse that?
And most of all, you have the best personality. Always bound by the rules of fashion that follow either a cowboy, dinosaur connoisseur, or Avenger's mega fan. Begging everyone to play some kind of sport outside, into a superhero battle, or "fighting". You showcase your diverse taste in music - from "ABCs" to any Prince song to classic rock to country to rap - through interpretive dance moves that are often reminiscent of either a baby deer on ice or dude chillin' at a party. You are the best big brother, always hugging and kissing your sister, playing with her when I know you truly don't want to, sharing all of your things, and making sure the she is always okay when she cries. And no one finds you more entertaining than you yourself. Triumphantly laughing as you declare yourself funny or silly.
And though you may still be little, you are fierce. You transform from serene to laughing to outraged in the blink of an eye. I mean, you know what you want and you know when you want it. And when it doesn't happen as you picture it, you stomp to the room screaming "I'm going night night" as you lay down for a movie, blanket, milk, and a little alone time. Making me thankful that the cyclone often passes as quickly as it comes - with stillness and giggles left in its wake. It's the times where I can see how you will handle things as you get older - often mirroring your father in that you like to just be left alone and myself in that you don't like to communicate much. And it's totally fine.
Anyways, my strong, smart, strong, and cool (because right no you aren't cute or handsome - just cool) handful of a boy, it is a complete honor to be your mother. To raise you, hold you, and follow you through your childhood and bear witness to all that you are and all that you are becoming. And I cannot wait to see the man that you will one day be. But for now, I'll enjoy you as the crazy three-year-old you are. Happy birthday my baby boy! I love you, always.
