You are 8 on the 8th, Drew. And You are YOU!

The doctor said it for the third time:  "It's a boy!"
I giggled and thought, "Well, no problem. I got this."
Then I took a look at your bright red face that matched your bright red head.
Think again, sister.

I wondered which one you would you be like.  The first or the second.  But you are just you . . . the third.  You are the exclamation point at the end of the sentence that is our family.
 

You are you, all on your own.  Red hair flaming.  Freckles popping.  Littlest, bittiest nose we have ever seen. 

You are you.   Sliding the kitchen chairs to the counter to climb, so that we had to bungee cord them together under the table.  Waking at the slightest noise so that we had to put the sound machine on high and the bathroom fan on at the same time.  Throwing the biggest, baddest, loudest tantrums we had ever seen.

You are you.  Starting out as their bat boy and now giving those big boys a run for their money with so many pitches and hits and baskets and catches.  You throw and you shoot and you run and you tackle. Those brothers won't let you travel or double dribble or have more than three strikes.  They won't go easy on you and they will make you wait your turn. They are the meanest of the mean and the bestest of the best.  They will make you strong and brave and tough because they love you so fiercely.

You are just you.  You are not just one more boy.  You are one of three, but like no other.  You challenge my patience the most.  You wrap your arms around me the tightest.  When you bounce out of the school doors, you smile the biggest.  You cling the hardest to Daddy's hand.  You bring new space to my heart that was already bursting full, so that everyday I think it will crack open at the seams because of how I adore you, my littlest love.

You desperately want to just "get big."  When I get big, I'll do this.  When I get big, I'll do that.
Once, when you were about three, we sat outside the church nursery and you clung to me and cried that you didn't want to go. We were about to be late for the service and then you made sure of it.  You looked at us with tears streaming and asked, "Mommy and Daddy, when you get wittle, will you come to Sunday School with me?"

Oh, how I wish we could stay wittle together, my wittle one.  But you keep getting big.  And you must.  Because our God has big things in store for you, wittle boy . . . a big, shiny future for you.  It's just for you and it as blinding as the glow of those bright red curls.

Happy 8th birthday, Drew Christopher.  I love you to pieces.