The day has finally come: my baby just hit double digits. 1-0. Ten. Two numbers will from this day forth represent his number of years on the planet. How in God's name did this happen?
I remember this boy:
This is the boy who when he was born, I would've chewed through the umbilical cord, bolted from the hospital, and raised him alone in some cave, where I would've growled at all the foolhardy souls who dared to enter.
This is the boy who is an awful lot like me: loud, dramatic, intense and a propensity to go a bit overboard on pretty much everything.
This is the boy who is dramatic. Wait, I already said that, didn't I?
This is the boy for whom I quit my job to stay home and raise. Without a doubt, it was one of the single best decisions I've ever made and I'm so very thankful we found ways to make it work financially.
This is the boy who gets a new thing and becomes singularly obsessed with it for weeks on end.
This is the boy who always knows how to make an entrance.
This is the boy who is utterly brilliant and makes every day exceptionally extraordinary.
This is the boy who still fits onto a lap.
This is the boy I'm so glad we made.
This is my boy, Cole. And he's 10 years old.
How time does fly.
Happy Birthday, Coley. I love you, buddy.