A year. One whole year. Three hundred and sixty five days. Twelve months. It has been an amazing journey and, though I would sure like to change the circumstances, I wouldn't trade a moment of the time we've had with you. A year ago today you locked your deep, dark eyes on mine in the operating room. Every day, when I go to get you out of your crib, your eyes find mine and you break into the biggest grin. Now, three teeth greet me where there used to be only gums. Number four and five are right behind.
I splurged. I had a gift card and I bought you an ensemble for your special day. I asked your brother if we needed the hat. He insisted that we did. Surprisingly, you left it on.
Then you opened a few presents before crashing for an afternoon nap.
Happy Birthday. I'm hoping and praying for the blessing of celebrating many, many more with you.