Eleven years ago, this happened.
Our (not-so) little perfect baby arrived. And everything changed forever.
Last night during dinner, Noah held his hands up, fingers spread wide. "Starting tomorrow I won't be able to show how old I am with my hands anymore."
Into uncharted territory, once again.
He looks just like his dad. He got a small, adorable smattering of freckles across his nose this summer and sandy bit of blond back in his hair. His feet are officially bigger than mine and I can just rest my chin on the top of his head, and at least once a week he'll turn a hug into a jump, just to make sure I can still pick him up, even if it's a struggle and only for a minute or two.
It's still all Legos and Minecraft and comic books, along with a deep interest in the many theories and philosophical aspects of time travel. This year, however, he's doing his biography book report on Alexander Hamilton.
("SIT DOWN JOHN YOU FAT MOTHER BEEEEEEEEEEP" is his favorite most inappropriate turn of phrase. Probably my bad.)
He would like everyone to vote for Hillary Clinton, our first Girl President, a milestone he is very excited about. Donald Trump scares and confuses him, as did the teenage boy in the Lego store who informed him that the Ghostbusters set he was admiring wasn't "really Ghostbusters" because the minifigures were female.
"I don't think he was right," he said afterwards. "ANYONE can be a Ghostbuster."
Yes they can, Noah. And so can you. Happy Birthday to a completely amazing, awesome kid.