Happy Birthday to you!

For the record, I think that May, might actually kill me.

Dear Marshall,

I’m starting this letter out a little bit more graphic than is usually my style because at some point I think I may start calling you on it.  Instead of saying “because I said so!”  I’m going to start saying, “because I birthed you! All 9lbs and 60z of you! From my vagina! (how awkward would that be to a tween boy?)”

I remember everything about you being born.  I remember the terrible excruciating pain that I wasn’t sure would ever end.  I remember begging for a c-section.  I remember the terrible nurse who told me I was being too loud and scolded me for not taking the Lamaze  refresher class.  I also remember telling her she should learn how to breathe.  There were lots of explicit words in there for her.  There were lots of other unpleasant experiences that I won’t share with you.  (It really surprises me that I even decided to have another baby after you). And then after three excruciating hours,  you popped out.  Well, actually you were pulled out.   I think there may have actually been a little bit of a tug-of-war between the doctors and my cervix.   All 9lbs 6oz of you was yanked from my little tiny body.  I have no idea where I fit all of you at.

At the time though, I remember you being incredibly tiny.  The smallest baby ever.  The smallest, most perfect, child in the world.  I don’t think there was ever a more adorable baby to ever be born.  By far, you were more perfect than all of your siblings.

I remember the nurses all coming in to gawk at you.  “Wow!  We haven’t had a baby this big in a long time!” Every time I thought they must have been on crack.

You were born with Erbs Palsy.  Thank God my mom came to visit, because I think that my adoration for you may have caused me to ignore this one small defect.  Your right arm just hung limp at your side.  It just laid there like a wet noodle.  The nurses mentioned it, the pediatrician even called our house before your first doctor’s appointment.  The whole time, I thought that all of these people were completely crazy, maybe they mixed you up with some less than perfect baby.  Months of constant physical therapy gave you full range of motion back on your arm.

I remember my mom coming with me to your first doctor’s appointment and asking why you were so red.  It really bothered her.  She must have commented on it a thousand times.  I couldn’t for the life figure out what she was talking about because you were perfect.

We’d be out in public and we’d get comments like “Boy! He’s not a starving boy!” and I’d just take it as a compliment.  Thank you, I’m a super nurser.  Never once realizing that they were commenting on your roly poly cheeks and thunder thighs.  To me, you were the most wonderful perfect little boy.

You’ve always been absolutely perfect to me.   And at this point, I think it’s really only my opinion that matters.  Plus, I know you best.  I get the privilege to spend every day with you.    Even on the days when I want to string you up by your toes, I’m still glad to be able to be with you.

More than any of my children, you are most like me.  I can relate to you the best.   It isn’t so much that we share the same hobbies or talents.  By far you are more talented than I could have ever dreamed of.  You excel at every sport you try.  You are creative and artistic, despite what you think.   You love to dance and sing, I think sing, I’m not quite sure if  you’d classify it as sing, but you make lots of noise.  Acutely, I understand what you are feeling.  I understand your perfectionism.  I understand your fear of failure.  I understand how high your expectations are for others and how much you demand of yourself.   I understand how you don’t like any attention, even positive attention.

Maybe for all of these reasons It seems like I push you harder than any of your siblings.  I make you try new things.  I force you to talk to strangers.  I push you to go outside of your comfort zone.  I don’t do it to be mean.  I don’t do it for my own entertainment.  I want you to have a little glimpse of how amazing you are.

You are amazing.

You are a wonderful athlete, scout, student, kid, guitar player, video gamer, lawn mower, big brother, little brother, son, and the list just goes on and on.  I’m not sure if there are enough nouns to give you accolades for all of the ways that you bless us each day.

It amazes me that you are ten already.  I remember carrying you around in my sling until Mike was born.  I remember nursing you. I remember cuddling you and squishing your fat little legs.  I wonder where did all of those years go?  When did you go from that pudgy little baby into this big kid?  When did that happen?  When did you loose all those baby fat rolls?

May these ten years just be a small taste of the happiness that you will bring to our lives.  Happy Birthday!