A Letter To My Son On His 4th Birthday
I can’t believe it’s been four years since you vacated my uterus. You had such an easy delivery. I enjoyed Saturday Night Live as your enormous head was pulled out of my lady pocket. My doctor had warned me in the last weeks of my pregnancy that second children make for swift deliveries. Because of this I carried a beach towel and plastic shoe covers in my purse just in case my amniotic fluid suddenly erupted at a grocery store or God forbid in the middle of a restaurant. Apparently you liked my lady cave because you stayed an extra five days. I tried various methods to speed up your delivery including eating spicy food, having my doctor strip my membranes, and doing giant squats in the driveway as confused neighbors drove by. I even considered breaking my own water, but couldn’t find anyone who would loan me a javelin.
You were perfect. Daddy held you in his arms and promised to love and protect you the rest of your life while I asked the doctor for her thoughts on the benefits of eating or drinking your own placenta.
Now you are four. If I close my eyes I can still smell your baby vomit and dirty diapers (but that could be because your new baby sister just spit up and needs her diaper changed). Point is it feels like yesterday we drove you home from the hospital. We blinked and now we are having long conversations in the car about whether ninja turtles go to the bathroom, why your penis sometimes gets stuck under your butt, and if God likes to vacation in Hawaii.
You are a sweet boy. I know I say it all the time, but it is true. Take, for example, how upset you get at tae kwon do when Master Yu tries to convince your friends to divulge their name in that Don’t Let a Stranger Abduct You mental exercise.
In fact you are so committed to your martial arts that when the American hip hop artist Aloe Blacc asked your sister her name at the hotel pool in Maui this summer you held up your hand and exclaimed, “Get away stranger, I don’t know you, please someone help me!” (He’s a dad, so he didn’t mind).
I continue to marvel at the love you have for your sisters. For example, most boys are not willing to play Let’s Pretend We Are The Kardashians.
Most boys don’t want to sit beside their their baby sister and ask her if she likes to eat pie and promise to teach her to ride a scooter or climb a ladder.
And although we have been unable thus far to produce you a brother, you still manage to forgive us.
Bottom line is you are a kind, generous, and smart boy. I am astounded by your ability to navigate the applications on an iPad, DVR a show using a television remote, and understand children’s toy assembly instructions, which are, as you know, beyond your own mother’s ability.
You are patient and funny, loyal, and strong. I could not ask for a better son.
Even if I STILL can’t figure out why you look so much like President George W. Bush.
Happy Birthday, my sweet boy.
I love you,
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