A year ago today, you entered the world, right at this time. According to the doctors, you held on tight, not wanting to leave the warm, comfy home you had done your growing in. I remember a doctor telling Daddy to stand up and look. “What do you see?” he asked. “I see feet!” your daddy said, completely missing the point. “No! What do you see besides feet?” he asked again. “IT’S A BOY!” your daddy exclaimed.
You cried lustily at the sheer meanness of making you leave a place you were completely comfortable, as your daddy came over to snap pictures of your pouting face. I was getting put back together by the doctors as the nurses watched to make sure you were OK. And of course you were. You’re John. They finally brought you to me, and we both stopped crying.
We cuddled together for a while, just the two of us and Daddy, before the nurses came to give you a bath. They wheeled you down the hall, and stopped so that Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Mike and Aunt Jen could see you for the first time. They waited all night to meet you, and to learn your name. You’re John, just like Grandpa.
That first day, even though we were so tired, we couldn’t take our eyes off of you. You had your daddy’s eyes – still do. You have my mouth and dimples. We’re still to this day not sure if it’s Daddy’s nose or Mommy’s nose, but pretty much everyone agrees that you look like the perfect mixture of both of us.
And now, you are this tiny little person with his own opinion and a rapidly increasing vocabulary – a lethal combination. You’re a consummate flirt, a friendly raconteur (albeit in baby babble), and a lilliputian gourmand. You like to dance, you like to sing, and nobody can resist smiling back if you bestow a smile in their direction.
You’ve been such a joy to get to know, little man. And I cannot wait to see what the next year holds for us.
I love your guts.