Three years ago yesterday, a team of doctors grunted and heaved and yanked you out of me after I let them try to induce labor four separate times. The second you cried, I burst into tears of relief. Had I any idea of what you would bring to our life (the drama, the exhaustion, the hilarity) I would've cried for dozens of other reasons, too. I can hardly believe it's been three years. I can barely remember my life before you, which is to say I love you more each day.
We've had a difficulf couple of weeks, you and I. We've both been sick, and cranky, and you just started preschool, and I just went back to work after the summer, so we've had a lot of changes. And you like to see the surprise in my face when you do something unfathomable to me: five weeks after potty training, you looked me in the eye on Thursday while you pooped in your Little Mermaid panties, for example. You even told me you were doing it, and when I said "Well go to the potty!" you smiled and said "No." The next day, when you asked if you could have some pretzels, I said of course. So you looked at me with that same smile and dumped them on the floor. Then you stomped on them. While smiling.
I trust this behavior will pass. And I am learning to be more patient with you. But mercy, child, you don't need to test me every. single. day. Honest.
Tonight, as we played baseball in the backyard (you=Joe Mauer; I=Justin Morneau) we laughed and laughed and laughed, and decided together to start a band called The Lumpy Bubbles. You said you would sing and play drums, and I said I would play the saxaphone, and you said Daddy could play the xylophone. And we laughed and laughed some more. And you threw your arms around me and said "Oh, I love you, Mama!"
I cried again, with relief. I love you too, Sprout. As long as we live, it's you and me baby. And there ain't nothin' wrong with that.