forty-eight months, or, the blink of an eye

Dear Henry Carmine,

Today you turn four years old. If I can sum up your past year in one word, it would be hilarious. You have developed into the goofiest child I've ever been in the presence of. It's almost become too much, your zany antics. For instance, you will occasionally come out of your room like this:

And we will wonder what on earth Elton John is doing in our house.

I remember when you were one and hadn't said a single intelligible word, but had sung and babbled endlessly. We started signing with you and then you haven't stopped talking since. I have to remind myself that one day, likely in less than ten years, you probably won't communicate in anything but grunts and shrugs. It makes me a smidge more tolerant of your incessant talking, singing, and hoots/hollers. You say hysterically funny things sometimes, like the other morning when you told your father that when you were a baby you had three hands. When he asked you where the third one is now, you replied that it was in your tummy, for you had eaten it. Obviously.

Henry, you also fancy yourself a musician, alternating which member of the praise band you "are" each minute. You are in love with your guitar and have quite the sense of rhythm, even if your pitch matching ability sadly more resembles your father's rather than mine. I imagine that the intense daily 3-hour music theory and ear training classes we've enrolled you in for the summer will assist with fixing that. (Ummm, joke.)

Last night we went swimming in a friend's pool, and for the first 45 seconds, you refused to put your face in or attempt to swim on your own, since we had (intentionally) left the arm swimmies behind. But once you did it, we couldn't stop you. In fact, you had to get out and sit on the side for a few minutes because you once started swimming to me from the steps when my back was turned without telling me ahead of time, like we have taught you. You suddenly became fearless in the water in a matter of minutes. This is quite a change from last summer's swimming lessons.

I realized recently that I've never told your birth story on this blog. I want to do that soon, before the cobwebs completely obscure the memories. You are the sweetest big brother already, you know. Every time you are near me you want to kiss or hug or zerbert your baby, or tell the baby a story, which generally goes like this: "Once upon a time, there was a bear necessities. Aaaaaand, the boy - what's him name, Mommy? - oh yeah, Mowgli, that's right. There was Mowgli, and they sang I mean the bear necessities, the simple bear necessities, forget about your worries and your strife... The end." Because that's exactly what you want your baby sibling to know.

Just when we've lost our minds trying to keep up with you and getting you to slow down for ONE.DANG.SECOND, and we're ready to send you to live with your godfather Chad so he'll take you on a four-month mountain hike to maybe, possibly get you tired enough to STOP.THE.NOISE you are making, we send you to your room to get ready for bed, and you emerge like this (and he was waving the pennant):

And then we remember why we wanted to start all over with another baby. Because you have given and taught us way, way more than we have you. I know we're not perfect parents, but our successes hopefully outweigh our failures. The other day I asked you who Jesus is, and you told me that He is the Son of God. So, I have hope that we're doing some things right. We love you. Happy Birthday, my first baby.


Love,
Mommy