In 2011, you told me that I was the best mom ever. And I promised to remind you of that when you were screaming "I hate you" just a few years down the road.
I hope that you're right.
If there's anything I've learned about being your mom for the last seven years, it's that nothing has been how I expected it would be. Which sort of makes sense because I really had no expectations.
There were no cliches', no "aha" moments about you that I could pinpoint in an index notation of a best selling parenting book that prepares for the generalities of caring for a baby but not really parenting one.
Maybe that's because there aren't any words to describe what it is to be someone's parent. For me, it felt like simultaneously getting the wind knocked out of me and air being pumped back into my lungs.
When they laid you on my bare chest, it was equally terrifying as it was glorious.
But each moment we've had together are new and fresh, ones we we made together, on our own. Not in some book. Not in my mind. Or even in my mind's eye.
Sure, I've tried to picture what you would be like, but, Quinlan, my imagination didn't do you justice.
So instead of seeing you at 10, 13, or 18, I'll just enjoy you as you are right now.
Happy Birthday, love.
Here are a few birthday posts from past years if you're so inclined.