Happy. Birthday.

September 1, 2007.

2:13am.

7 pounds, 6 ounces.

You were, quite literally, my angel.

But you know that.

Then, September 1, 2008...

 

 

In that first and second year, you taught me patience. You taught me strength.

And you taught me love like I never knew.

Then, September 1, 2009...

Your third year has been the toughest so far, and yet it has also been the most fun and the most rewarding. I have watched you go from using words like "mama" and "ball" to using words like "beautiful" and "amazing."

You can shoot a basketball from half the length of the house, and make a perfect "swish." You then typically run around the house, screaming, "I'm a good basketball player!"

You haven't quite mastered the art of pedaling a bike, but you love your bike nonetheless.

You love to play any sport that involves a ball, more recently the game of golf.

Your favorite book is a book about fire trucks.

Your favorite thing to eat is chicken. In fact, grandpa continuously voices his concern that you are going to turn in to one giant chicken tender.

You love your Mystic cat. She loves you too, despite sometimes being tortured by you.

You love to paint and color, but you don't have the patience to apply more than 10 minutes to creating a project. You'd rather be running around outside, or playing with trucks. Because of this, mommy usually puts the finishing touches on your art pieces.

You have at least 1,478,390,276 Matchbox cars. 

You have a name for each of your 1,478,390,276 Matchbox cars.

You have given up your morning "shake" of warm milk mixed with fruit. Your morning now consists of climbing into bed with mommy and daddy and watching Sesame Street or Caillou.

Oh, how you love Caillou. 

You're growing up so much. You like showers, instead of baths. You've started to call me "mom" as opposed to "mommy." You cherish your freedom, and sometimes prefer to go upstairs to your room, rather than hang out downstairs with mom and dad.

Grandpa more recently gave you your first taste of soda, and now, whenever you get the chance, you ask me for a Diet Coke. Unfortunately for you, I refuse to oblige.

You've had a camera in your face every day for almost three years and have since mastered the art of putting your hand into the air and saying, "Stop. No more pictures, mommy."

You can name any kind of construction truck you see.

You love to vacuum and help me with the laundry.

Your new favorite word is "poop." You giggle every time you say it, and yesterday you told grandma that you wanted poop for dinner.

You are such a boy.

You have yet to cooperate for your three-year photos, so I don't have one to match the others that I have posted in this letter. But I'm sure I'll snag it eventually. You'll do almost anything I ask if I bribe you with a trip to Target, or a piece of candy. 

I love you, monkey. You are still my angel. And you will always, always, always have my heart.