Pow Pow Pow!

When I started this blog, I never envisioned that my most captivated readers would be my kids. They love when I post something new, love looking through the pictures, love hearing the frame that I put around their lives.

Their favorite entries were written on the days they were born. Mary tends to ask me to read hers first. Bobby comes over soon after, asking for me to read it again, then to read his. And finally, I get to Margaret's. They watch me tear up. They laugh when I laugh. Enamored, they stare with disbelief at their newborn photos.

These are the long versions of their birth stories. There are also abbreviated ones, which were prompted by a lack of time to read the whole story and a desire for an extra element of comedy.

They ask, 'Tell me what I was like when I was born?'

Mary ... you were like ahhhhhhhhhh, I'm starving, feed meeee, ahhhhhhhhh, let me out. (Mary was born at a teeny tiny five pounds likely due to an issue with the placenta not being attached right toward the end of my pregnancy. I'm pretty sure she was literally starving.)

Bobby, you were like, 'pow, pow, pow, pow, pow' and punched your way out. (Which basically happened - my water broke two weeks early.)

And Margaret, you were like 'glub, glub, glub, I'm a happy, chubby baby and I'm not coming out.' (Also true. And this is the impression that sends them roaring with laughter.)

Of all the baby personalities that I've created, Bobby's is the one that most resonates to this day. He is still full of pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. He doesn't do anything at half speed, half emotion, half full of life. It's 100% pow, every day.

Bobby, you fell asleep on the eve of your birthday, next to me, in my bed. While your dad has the magic touch to get you to sleep every night, generally, my only trick is letting you curl in bed with me.

I transported you to your own blue and white striped bed, tucked you under your shark covers, blanket and owls safely stashed in your arms still. Whether it's in your bed, on a plane, or in the car - when you do finally crash, it's hard - there's no waking you up.

The next morning, you ran, not walked, downstairs, proud of your five year old status. You stood a little taller, acted a little more mature, fought with your sister a little less.

We got to read to your class in the morning - you picked Mother Bruce - a new favorite that you thought everyone would find funny. And they did. We all sang happy birthday and you were beaming with excitement.

That evening, Daddy and I took you out to dinner - just the three of us. You told me that you always wanted to come on our dates, just like this. You gobbled up a pile of french fries and took a couple bites of your hamburger, plus downed three lemonades. Three. For dessert, you had vanilla ice cream. Slurping it off the spoon, you turned to me and said, this is the best day ever.

Bobby, I'm pretty sure every day is better than the next for you though. Whether it's building a new Lego with your Dad, making and stretching slime with Eva, biking around the neighborhood, skiing with me, building a snow fort outside, playing with your friends, doing jazz walks with your sisters, coloring, reading, snuggling, and hugging it out - you live your best love - and bring us so much joy.

And I'm so glad you've also found friends that have the same sort of joie de vivre ... unleashing them in our house yesterday was another story ... but anything to make my birthday boy feel totally celebrated.

  

I love you, Bobby. So much.

Lo / Mommy.