I cannot believe you are three years old today. It seems like just yesterday I dreamed of you, I felt you kicking, I saw you in that incubator. With every year you get older, I wonder how it is possible for my heart to feel so much more love, but yet, it does.
This year has been huge for you. We moved to our "new house" as you call it, "the white one." With that move came the understanding of you a little better. Sensory Processing Disorder was just the label, but we started to understand YOU, to unlock YOU. You didn't give us kisses, or hugs, or say you loved us in the spring. You didn't ride the carousel, you didn't slide or swing. You were paralyzed with fear. Now you do all of that and more. I never imagined. I am so proud of you. This year you changed as a person in ways I never dreamed it could.
You still love animals with every bone in your body. Maybe someday you'll be a veterinarian. You try to tell jokes, and you love to make us laugh. Your laugh is so infectious that once when you laughed in the lobby of a restaurant while we were waiting to eat, 15 other people laughed with you. You give the biggest hugs now and insist all your kisses are "on the mouth." When you dance, it looks like you are galloping. You love to dance. The things you say are funny, and smart, and amaze me. When they tested you last month, some of your language tested at the level of a 5 year old. You amaze everyone you talk to.
You are so smart! Letters, colors, numbers, shapes. You have them down pat. You come up with elaborate ideas and act them out now with your brother. You told me tonight that my hair is beautiful. You see things I never see, and seeing the world through your eyes amazes me.
Every night when you tell me you love me, when I am shutting the gate to your room, my heart melts a little more. Someday soon you'll be a boy, and a man. I am so glad that I have the honor of raising you. Happy third birthday, Summy. I love you.
Today you are three. I have gotten so used to calling you and your brother "the babies" or "my babies." Well today I realized that you aren't a baby any longer. Today I feel like you are a boy. I never imagined when you were that tiny thing looking so helpless and strapped to a cpap machine that you would become the darling, sweet, and loving boy you are today.
This year has brought a lot of changes for you too. We learned more about why you are always falling down. I thought you were clumsy, maybe like me, but I am learning so much about you and so much through you. Sensory Processing Disorder is what we learned it is called, but you rose above what we thought you could possibly do. By the end of this summer you were more aware, more careful. You also came through your therapy with a curiosity to learn, and learn you did. After you got your glasses this fall you started learning your numbers and letters so quickly. Now you know almost all of them. You love to learn and I am amazed with all that you know.
You love to draw and color, and frequently we find you have drawn all over something you weren't supposed to. Your Daddy's work notes are scribbled all over with "Jack" handwriting. You make the most hilarious voices. Each of your stuffed animals (which you love) has it's own voice. You feed them, put them to bed, and take care of them just like a mother. You are so nurturing. You worry about everyone in the house and always check to make sure we are OK. You are so polite and always say please and thank you. I am so proud of you for being so kind to others.
You love to be tickled and you seem to be quite the "mama's boy." You love to snuggle and just yesterday we spent 10 minutes snuggling together under the blanket pretending we were hiding from a dragon. You love to make others laugh, and you wear your heart on your sleeve, just like me. I love you even more for that.
When I look at you, I see myself. Sometimes that scares me. How did I get the opportunity to raise such a sweet, handsome, smart little man? Before I know it, you'll be a man. What a wonderful boy you are turning out to be. I love you, Jack.