Idiosycratic Life

I remember when he first began loving fire engines and Spiderman, telling us, "I like school."

I remember recording him singing "Jingle Bills" in the clear, slightly off-key, confident notes that only children are unselfconscious enough to sing in public. He stalls at one point, and I join in to prompt him, though I edited that part out in the CDs I burned as Christmas presents for his family last year. I doubt I will ever listen be able to listen to that duet again.

On this child's birthday, I'm wishing that his life is wonderful. I'm wishing that he gets to have many more adventures as he lives in countries all over the world. I'm wondering if his dad will ever again be in the type of post where ninjas come in the middle of the night if you open the wrong door and hoping he has fun with that. I'm hoping that he gets to grow up with two whole, healthy parents until he's very, very old. I'm hoping he conquers whatever challenges that come his way. I'm hoping he gets hours and hours to spend with his uncle who adores him, who can do endless silly voices and keep a straight face for hours before giving him a "serious word." I'm hoping all of that with the same silent fervor one feels as they lean over to blow out the candles on their birthday cake.