Dear third child who is so completely awesome yet you would never know it by reading my blog,

You are awesome. Today isn’t your birthday. We’re not marking a milestone (unless you count, oh, I don’t know, your BIRTH, which was only lightly chronicled here). I realize that compared to your siblings, you have scant pictures and stories about you on this blog. But you? Wonderful, smiley, chronically happy, you? You don’t seem to mind. I keep meaning to post your birth story (Cliff Notes version: Contractionscontractionscontractions, meeting at the office at 10 am contractionscontractionscontractions, um, I think I have to gOOOO contractionscontractionscontractions now. Hi Doctor? I think I am in labor. Am I in LAAAAA… contractionscontractioncontractions… bor? Oh. I am? Go straight to the hospital? Right-O. Contractionscontractionscontractions, trip to Target, stand in checkout liiiINNNNEEEEE contractioncontractioncontractions, get to hospital, take the elevAATOOORRRR, lean heavily on elevator door door contractionscontractionscontractions Best friend/doula/hair-holder-while-in-labor, Becca, come quiIICCCCKK! contractionscontractionsconTRAC…tions… oh! Here he is! Jack is here! Beautiful, perfect, wonderful, squirmy lovely tiny Jack! Welcome to our world!)

I’ve been holding you nearly every moment ever since. Well, except when Daddy is holding you.
Or Jay is. Or Ella is. Or Grandma or Grandpa. Hey. My turn.

I keep meaning to post pictures of your irrepressible smile.

I keep meaning to write about how much your siblings adore you.

I keep meaning to write about how much everyone loves you.

I keep meaning to write about how you are cooing, and then wait! You’re sitting up all by yourself. And then scooting around on your belly and then pulling yourself up to a stand… and by the time I sit down to write about how much you have grown and all the cool stuff you can do, you are on to some other developmental milestone and then Bam! We’re off childproofing the condo or fishing pennies out of your mouth (as an aside, Ella informed me the other day that when she grows up, she wants to be a butterfly. And a ballerina… and a hunter. Considering that Daddy had to pull a penny out of your mouth yesterday, we are wondering if you plan on being an ATM when you grow up. We could use the cash. Just a thought. No pressure.)

I keep meaning to write about you. Marvelous, sweet, deliciously happy you.

But I think I have to hold you instead.