This baby. This little, tiny child. He’s 13 today.
This one, my third of four, is his own man.
He’s quiet. So quiet. He could easily slip through the cracks because he doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t demand attention.
As a baby, for a few month period, he cried for hours, starting at 10 pm on the nose.
We would have to walk-bounce him in this weird inverted v-deep knee bend to keep the noise at bay, and still, he would persist.
I like to think he got it all out of his system in those early years because now he is the most low-maintenance child I’ve ever seen.
But we see him. We know him.
I have never met someone who truly doesn’t care about what people think of them, but this one? He doesn’t.
He’s private, introspective, and quiet.
But if you know him? If he has let you in?
Hysterical.
He’s fiercely creative.
He’s in a constant state of creation. He makes cardboard boxes into castles, turns pvc pipe into light sabers, and can do just about anything with a roll of duct tape.
He is endlessly patient and kind with his little brother, despite just how “extra” Tiny can be with him.
He loves his big brother and sister and cherishes any time he gets to spend with them, even if it’s time doing a whole lotta nothing.
He is a love to Real Man and I, and will do whatever we ask him to do, even if he is right in the middle of something.
He’s 13 today, and I can’t believe it, because he was always my baby. Even Tiny’s birth couldn’t erase the five years when this guy was the youngest.
I’m so excited to see what he winds up doing with his life. I don’t really care what it is. I just hope that it makes him happy.
Because this kid?
He brings me such joy.
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