Happy Birthday to my Impossible Son.
Ten years ago, after 24 hours of labor, almost pushing you out, and an emergency c-section to follow, they laid you next to me and I thought, "OMG, I gave birth... to my DAD."
It was a kinda scary moment.
I got over it, though, when you squinched up your face and you looked just like your Papa. Thank goodness.
I'm trying very hard not to remember the fact that you are now officially... *ulp* ... a... PRE-TEEN!
*insert music from shower scene of "Psycho"*
It's been an interesting adventure so far, full of grubby hands, hugs, cookie thieves, Kingdom Hearts, outgrown sneakers, flat soccer balls, heart attacks, scraped knees, awkward elbows, stitches, broken thumbs, lots of mud and grass stains, Sponge Bob Square Pants, and Mario. And I'm looking forward to the next ten, or at least I'm trying to, with all the hair growing in weird places, extreme Body Odor, big feet and hands, elbows and knees everywhere, more outgrown sneakers and flat soccer balls, first kisses, an outrageous grocery bill, and going through tissues like nobody's business (just... please don't throw them under your bed, okay?), as well as other incipient heart attacks.
No matter how old you get, you'll always be my favorite Cookie Thief.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Impossible.
Between you and the Impertinent Daughter, life is never dull!