"You sure do dote on him a lot," my husband told me, as I clutched Drew in my arms on his third pre-bedtime request for kisses.
I suppose he's right - second born, middle child, only son. They're excuses that therapists probably hear all too frequently.
Birth order, gender, or whatever you want to call it aside, I love him like I love my girls.
And while he has the ability to bring out the scary parent in me that I thought had died with my father, he also challenges me to be a better parent.
A parent I would have never been without him.
The one with a construction vehicle addiction, wherein I almost involuntarily point out the diggers and front loaders to random strangers.
The one who knows that there are, in fact, different types of fire trucks, and can identify them by sight and sound.
And the one who endures daily rounds of "Variations on a Theme of Boy in the Corner" without even raising her voice.
Okay, so I'm still working in that part.
But without him, there would have been none of that.
So when he creeps out of his room on an almost nightly basis, asking for kisses with a coy look on his face, I oblige him.
Call me a sucker. It's okay.
I've come to learn that 3 will soon be 13. And 13 will soon be 23.
And those tiny moments, particularly when many parts of the day seem to be made up of moments I'd sooner forget, are very, very rare.
"When I'm taller than you Mommy, I'll be able to pick you up," he said, grapping me firmly around my legs and audibly straining.
Little does he know that he already does that.
Even though he's just as tall as my leg.
Happy 3rd Birthday, son.