Is now this kid.
I sat down on Friday to cull through the year's photos and video haul — that's probably my favorite part of the yearly montage tradition, looking back on the year and trying to pinpoint when their faces changed and their limbs stretched out — and after a few hours of half-hearted editing I realized that there was just no way; that eight might be the year to stop and figure out something else.
All my video of Noah has its own soundtrack now — there's no little pop song that's going capture Noah's year better than his own retelling of the Legend of Mister Dooknob*, or top his rendition of an original song, sung at the very top of his lungs from under the dining room table; even if it really is just him singing "stunkadilla, stunkadilla" over and over to the tune of Jingle Bells, while his little brother beats out the rhythmn on his drum set nearby.
What's a stunkadilla, I ask from behind the camera.
YOU'RE A STUNKADILLA, is the answer.
Happy birthday, Noah. You are officially too big, too much to ever describe in three minutes of video, or in all the blog entries in the world. But thanks for letting me try.
*Mister Doorknob lives on, in a special place of honor on a special shelf. Mister Woodchip is there too, along with some framed fingerpainting and other assorted ridiculous treasures. I will never, ever get rid of any of those things.