My little man turned four today. Yep. Four.
His birth was so amazing – as far as torturous experiences go – I distinctly recall afterwards just thinking that all I wanted to do with my life was have babies. Sigh. His was a waterbirth, and while I’ll spare you (and I) the gorily intimate details – though if you’re really keen, just look up ‘waterbirth’ on youtube and you’ll soon get the picture – just know that it was really peaceful. So much so, that afterwards the midwives were trying to prod him and poke him just to get him to cry, cos he was so content and peaceful just chilling out in my arms in the bathtub.
And now here he is: four years later.
He drives me nuts with his J-Lo like schedule of costume changes, his inclination to blame me whenever he bumps his head/scrapes his elbow even if I’m not in the same room as this occurence, and his obsessive/compulsive rants regarding washing his hands BEFORE flushing the damn toilet.
But…he also cracks me up with his sayings (the latest one being “Rock the Casbah!”), his highly involved toy-based stories (last week’s was very short and basically involved him picking up Ella’s cabbage patch doll and shooting her in the face: twice. Please don’t ask), while his cuddles first thing in the morning melt me into puddles of sleep-deprived goo.
“Am I REALLY four?” he asked this morning.
“Yup!” I said.
“Am I still Caleb?”
“Yup!” I laughed. “You’ll always be Caleb.”
Happy b’day little man.