Three years ago today, you arrived and changed everything. Watching you grow from a tiny baby into a vibrant, interesting little person has been utterly incredible. I feel like a new version of me was born the day you were, one that is infinitely more patient and laid back than I would've guessed possible. You're not perfect and neither am I, but it's okay. I have learned (or at least remembered) that the world is full of small wonders and that almost anything can be an adventure if approached with the right amount of enthusiasm. I quite frequently look at you and am awestruck that we made you, that we threw some cells together and made a person, a little being who is both the best of us and wholly himself.
You are busy but not high-energy, a little cautious but not anxious. You observe everything, you have a scary-good memory, and you never ever stop talking. Every month, every week, you surprise me with the things you can do and learn and say. In some ways I have you figured out and in others, you're constantly unexpected. You're gorgeous, you're charming, you're mostly sweet, and you're full of light. When your temper does flare, it always fades quickly. I'm not quite sure how I managed to have a child as even-keeled and sunny-dispositioned as you, but I'm certainly glad of it.
A month or two ago, I offered to sing you a bedtime song and you requested "something new." I named all the songs I could remember from summer camp and you declined them all. Grasping a bit, I started naming church songs with verses I could remember and finally hit upon "Amazing Grace." When I offered it, you replied, "Yes. Sing 'Magic Race.'" And I wanted to freeze-frame that moment, to burn it into my memory. It seemed like such a fitting analogy for everything that's awesome about you and this age you are now. You are magic, you are amazing, you are my grace. You are the most wonderful gift and I am grateful for you every day.