Today, my boy is one. My boy is one year old!
His personality is coming in with his fine blond hairs. His grin is getting more mischievous, his giggles more frequent. He’s running faster, squealing more loudly, and climbing into and onto everything–step stools, toy boxes, clothes baskets, wagons, his stroller…. Today, he was able to reach the handles to the kitchen cupboards (oh joy.) while yesterday, he wasn’t.
But he’s still only one. He’s not a teenager yet, and that means he’s getting up at seven tomorrow, so this will be brief. A look back in time:
He’s one, and I was wrong–I am getting teary. But not in the bittersweet sort of way. Just in the “I’m so happy it’s his birthday” kind of way. And also, this sounds ridiculous, but somehow, he seems just a little bit more of a real person, now that he’s had a birthday. He’s opened presents (surprisingly reluctantly) and been sung to (and been appropriately bashful about it) and eaten cake. Boy, did he eat cake.