My baby Bird was 4-years old when I started writing this blog.
He just turned 16.
I swear, I blinked and time blasted at warp speed. Every damn cliche about children growing up is true. I wish I had enacted more “mores.”
More playing.
More cuddling.
More listening.
More patience.
More treats.
More yeses.
Alas, here we are at 16, a sacred, private time where sharing details has ceased. I won’t carry on, lest I embarrass Bird more than I already do by merely existing. Truth be told, the death stares are waning, so maybe we’ve come to accept each other after all.
We are so eerily alike. But Bird is way a smarter, more insightful, curious kid than I was at his age. And he gets in less trouble.
I love you Bird. You make me proud, and I sure am glad you’re mine. May you always reach for the sunshine and feels its glow.
And by the way, I made you a playlist. It’s admittedly not all appropriate so don’t listen to it around your grandparents.
Rock on, Birdman.