Friday, July 16, 2004

Birthday entry

I really wasn’t thinking of my blog.  However, seeing as though it’s my birthday, I felt I should write something, even if it’s nothing. Yes. It’s my birthday today, but that only made me realize, not that I’m getting older, but that my kids are. My daughter Mikayla is 7 years old. I apologize in advance for the cliché, but it seems like yesterday that she was a bald baby girl who couldn’t even control her muscles enough to hold her head up. She can do headstands now. I’m a horrible singer, but she used to love it when I sang to her (Jenn wasn’t ever in earshot of that). Earlier this year MikNugget (one of her nicknames) had a solo singing role in a little musical at theatre camp, her voice as sweet as her mother’s. My oldest son once sweet and shy will tell anyone and everyone what is up. "Logan that’s not yours!" I’ll answer him with, "Sloan don’t talk to your brother that way." To which Sloan replies, "No Daddy! Shush! I was talking to Logan!" He asserts himself very well when he feels anyone has done wrong by him. He’s a big Mikayla fan. Everything his big sister does he has to do. In a playground one day, Mikayla saw a 4 year old fall and hurt himself. Mikayla knelt next to this kid, and tried to calm him, asking where his mommy was. Who is right next to her mimicking her every word and movement, but her 2-year old brother Sloan (who, by the way, was half the size of the kid who was hurt). He’s a big boy. Not only does he not wear diapers, but he stands up to pee. Did I mention he was a genius? We call him "Shine". I can remember when his sister had to help him fit the shapes into that hollow cube thing. Now, actually before he was three, he had learned how to do 25-50 piece puzzles by himself. He can be a total jerk to his baby brother, but if anyone else dare be a jerk to Logan, then Sloan is first to his side. Speaking of Logan… What an ox! I dare you to find a tougher 2-year old. You can’t. He has a "my size" lawn chair for toddlers that, for fun, he picks up over his head and throws. He thinks that’s hilarious. He’s completely fearless. He climbs anything, and just to see you sweat, he will jump off. The spooky part is he looks at you to see if you’re terrified before he jumps. If you’re not, then he apparently doesn’t believe he’s high enough. UP HE GOES! He had stitches before he was 2. Five stitches, if I remember correctly. The number he had in his mind must have been ten because he’s only gotten more brazen in his stunts. I’m only 29 and none of my babies are babies anymore. I love them so much. You probably think I’m ridiculous. "Dude, they’re 7,3, and 2! They’re not in college." Well… They’re also not 9lbs anymore. My little girl doesn’t need me to tie her shoes for her. My little boy wants to "do it himself". My daughter reads to me at night. My son tries to write like his sister. My youngest doesn’t want me to hold him like he used to. He doesn’t fall asleep in my arms anymore. What’s the point of this unorganized, non-structured rambling? I don’t know. It’s my birthday, and this is what I was thinking about. That’s it, I guess. How sad I am. How proud I feel. How lucky I am. I love my kids. I love my wife. I love my life. It’s been a great 29 years. Maybe that’s the point… if there is one.  I just thought I should write something… even if it’s nothing.


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