Before you were born, people kept telling me that my love for you would be different than my love for your sister. They’d say I’d love both the same amount, but differently. I thought, “Well yeah, obviously.” But I didn’t get it. I was having a hard enough time wrapping my brain around giving enough love to two kids, I couldn’t think about how my love for you would be different.

And then you were born. I’m sure it helped that you were a happy, easy baby (unlike your sister who screamed through the first 5 months of her life, poor thing). But there was something else too. Something that to this day, I still can’t put into words.

I always used to tell your daddy, “I just want him to stay THIS age, forever. Because right now, he fits so perfectly in my arms. His hugs are like completing a puzzle.” But I said that at 6 months, and 9 months, and 1 year, and 2 years, and here you are, creeping your way towards 4 years old, and somehow. By some little boy magic, you still fit. Perfectly.

You are everything I ever hoped and dreamed when I used to imagine what a son would be. Always covered in dirt, a little smelly, in love with all the usual little boy things, tender, kind, a defender, a cuddler.

I sure don’t know what I did to deserve you. But boy oh boy, I am so glad you’re mine.