Today you turned three years old and had a temperature of 101.

We’d bought plates and balloons and party favors all in your beloved puppy theme. They’re all still in plastic bags. We’d ordered a sheet cake and planned hot dogs and chips. They’re all still unopened. We’d bought presents and the only one you wanted was the black lab puppy. We’d invited family over and all day it was just you and me or dad on the sofa.

You slept. And we held your hand. Tight. Sweaty. Three.

And it was so perfectly you, Micah. With all your wild and ferocious attachment to your family. Your preference to be with us, to be home, to be held above anything else. We were your tight knit circle of revelers today and it was quiet and intimate and just as focused on you as any birthday boy could have wished.

You have taught us about the beauty of a passionate temperament. You have shown us the wild love of commitment that only welcomes mommy into the room in the morning and only wants daddy when it’s time to wrestle. You eat life Micah, like so much chocolate. You stuff your mouth full of love with both hands and we have to work hard to keep up the constant supply that you need to feel full.

You’d open your eyes at different times today and often whisper the  same thing, “Tank you for my doggie, mama. Tank you got it for my birfday.”

And my heart would squeeze tight and my tummy flip over and I’d whisper back, “you’re welcome, honey.” You’re welcome with every fiber of my being, every place in my heart that didn’t know it could fit all the love that you elicit, and every ounce of myself it takes to love you back at the warp speed you demand.

You will  always be my favorite favorite Christmas present.

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