My middle boy. My one we plotted and planned for, carefully examining a calendar, wanting to have our babies close together.
The baby who slept so well that I’d often wake in a panic in the middle of the night, just to check to make sure he was breathing.
Who used to prefer to fall asleep with his tiny fists clutched around my hair. I’d slowly untangle his fingers from my hair and gaze at those baby hands.
Who was so happy and content that his grandparents used to joke that I’d accidentally forget him in the car or at home because he was so good you could forget he was there.
But I never forgot he was there.
He was a cuddly, happy little guy. We called him our Little Bear.
In his preschool years, we went through many challenges with him. And I think what hurt my heart the most was knowing what a sweet boy he could be. How loving and lovable he was and is- and worrying that others weren’t seeing it.
He’s a fighter and has come so very far.
He loves his Angry Bird stuffed animals and will tuck one under his arm every night, lining the rest up beside him. He likes to play on the iPad and jump on the trampoline. He can hold his own playing soccer with his big brother. He’s reading and writing more and more and makes a face when he has to show his work on math problems because he just knows the answer in his head.
He loves his mama above all, even though he’s starting to want to do “guys’ night” with his Daddy.
He still gives the best hugs and can melt me with his smile.
And suddenly, my Little Bear is seven.
How is it possible?
Happy birthday to Mama’s Little Bear.