Dear sweet, sweet baby,
You were a completely unexpected baby, just like your older siblings. Your father and I believed our family was complete. Then one night, a week after signing a contract for our first house, I felt so sick and tired, I demanded your dad run to the drug store across the street and buy me a pregnancy test. This was a familiar scene in our marriage, you see, and every time it played out, the ending was the same. Despite the incredible odds, I was pregnant.
We were scared at first -- really scared. Three children meant the kids would outnumber the parents. We weren't prepared for that possibility. But eight months later, while your brother and sister were off at preschool and kindergarten one Thursday morning, you were born in a birth tub in our basement. It was a quick and beautiful birth. For a moment I didn't know whether you were a boy or a girl, because I was holding on to you so tightly in a daze of happiness and relief.
When I asked the midwife if she knew, she looked at me quizzically and said: "I don't know. Turn the baby around, Sandie." There you were, in all of your boy glory, crying and confused.
Two years later, your father and I marvel every day at how special you are, how much you were needed to truly complete our family. You're a miracle, a joy, an old soul in a teeny body. You don't say much, it's true, but what you do say is meaningful: Mama. Dada. Cookie ("Goo-gie"). Chicken. Shoes. Pockets. SpongeBob (it was bound to happen in this house). Bath. Backpack, etc. You narrate our days in single words, and then you smile. It's lovely.
You love puzzles and can do two at a time. You only want to wear pants with pockets, so you can stuff them with random tiny things lying about the house. You know that when we go to Starbucks you can get a milk box and when we stop at the Suburban Trading Co. you'll get a cookie from the cashier named Ann. You bring me my iPhone and my glasses every morning and say "MAMA! Here!" You're my little traveling companion. You were my personal anti-depressant after your Abuela died, and you continue to be a source of joy for everyone in your family.
I wish your Abuela were alive to see the little boy you're developing into, because she would've loved to brag about you to all of her friends. I smile when I think of the last time I saw her alive, because you were there too, and she squeezed your six-month-old hands and called you Papito lindo.
Happy birthday, Schmoopadoo. Know that you are unconditionally loved.