Mia's last day of Daycare...

This is an absolutely crazy time of year.  Between Rob’s end of school wrap up, the finalization and planning of summer camps/trips/nanny schedules, the year end festivities, BBQs and celebrations for both kids and an unanticipated surge in the number of palliative patients on my caseload, we have been moving at warp speed on a daily basis.

I often think of that scene from Spaceballs when they turn the velocity of the ship to LUDICROUS speed and, with the sudden acceleration making his face gaunt with disfigurmenet he says,  “BUT WE CANT TURN IT UP!!! WE’RE GOING TOO FAST!!!”

Too late.  I hear you, Spaceballs.  We’re going too fast.

Amidst the rush and micromanagement of various “to-do” lists, it suddenly fell on my plate to take Mia to daycare today.  And as we were packing up to go I somehow remembered that today was her last day of daycare.  For the summer…and…oh wait a second…for LIFE.

I paused – just for a split second – to let this sink in. 

Hmmm…

And then the dog barfed and the toothpaste fell on the floor and Toby couldn’t get his sunscreen cap off and WE WERE GOING TO MISS THE BUS and the moment was gone.

Of COURSE, of all mornings, there was crazy construction on the way to daycare.  We were late, but I still somehow remembered to bring in Mia’s hand made card and give it to her daycare teacher and before I knew it, she was with her group, about to go outside.  One last time.

I was rushed back out the door as an excited group of 2 year olds crowded the front hall to put their outdoor shoes on.  But as I ran down the path back to my car I felt time grind to an unexpected halt.

I turned.

And I looked at the door that had just shut behind me.

That door.

It seemed like yesterday and forever ago that I first opened that door, innocently and nervously dropping off my golden haired little 15 month old boy at his very first day of daycare.

And today, for the last time, I am leaving my grown up 4 year old baby girl.

There was no great ceremony to mark the end of Mia’s daycare life.  There was no hoopla for us, as a family, even though we have spent 6 years opening and closing that door to this wonderfully secure place that has nurtured our children through our most trying of days.

I supposed in life this is often how it goes; unceremoniously, the doors before us and behind us open and close.  We wander in, wander through and wander past, not always knowing which doors are significant.  My only hope is that life continues to bring me more times to pause and reflect and be thankful as one door closes and another opens.  It was but a small moment in my day today, but that brief opportunity to disembark from the lightening fast speed train of life to spend a moment in quiet reflection aligned everything back into perspective. 

Thank you, Duntroon, for nurturing my children in their early years.  For preparing them for kindergarten in ways we as parents cannot.  For creating some regularity and consistency in their lives.  For forcing me to delve deep into my inner often untapped soul of creativity each year for that damn Trike-a-thon. For letting us come early and late and somewhere inbetween.  And for loving our children.  Thank you for playing such an important part of their journey.

Toby Henry, on his First day at Duntroon Daycare, Sept 2009, age 1.5

Mia Henry, on her Last day at Duntroon Daycare, June 2015, age 4.5

We're all doomed...

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“JUST so you know, Mommy,” Mia announced tonight at dinner, completely out of the blue, “I am doomed.”

I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted an update on the kids, but just in case you’re wondering - -Mia is still only 4 years old.  (Going on 17, of course.)

Before I got the courage to ask my 4 year old why she was “doomed” and what on earth she was “doomed” for, she jumped in with a question,

“Mommy…” she pondered out loud, “What does DOOMED mean?”

Breathing a sigh of relief I explained it as something really bad that inevitably happens beyond your control.  She seemed quite spooked by the definition.

“Oh…” she said very seriously.  “I don’t think I’m doomed then. “

then a pause and (I swear to you) a mischevious look to the side,

“…But TOBY is.”

NO reaction.

(Phew)

“Toby?” Mia attempted to catch his attention as he quietly ate his supper, IGNORING her antics, “Toby!  I SAID you are DOOMED!”

He continued to ignore her, eating his pasta in mock-sister-immune-bliss.

“Oh, FINE” she said going back to her dinner, “Toby you’re JUST DOOMED.” She concluded for the last and final time.

I could tell by his sideways glance that the bait was hooked,

“No, Mia,” he said calmly between bites, “I am NOT DOOMED.”

“YES YOU ARE, TOBY YOU ARE DOOMED!”

It was as he was about to throw his milk at her that I decided it was time to step in.  I pointed out the extremely obvious fact that Mia was not using nice words, that (despite this) Toby should still not throw his milk at her and that he was, in fact, NOT doomed, despite his sister’s crazy prophecies.

After a few minute all was right again in our world.  We finished dinner and loaded into the car on our way to the end of school BBQ.   As we were driving along Toby realized that one of his fingernails was crooked.

(For real.  This kid notices EVERYTHING.  He takes life VERY seriously.)

“Mommy.” He said with equal parts concern and curiosity, “I think one of my fingernails is coming in crooked.”

“Uh, huh” was about all the sympathy I could muster...

“Well…I guess this just means I’m going to have crooked teeth AND crooked nails.” said a sad voice from the back.

Meanwhile, another much more cheerful voice joined in on the conversation,

“Well ALL of MY nails are STRAIGHT and all of MY teeth are straight.  So there you go, Toby.  YOU. ARE. DOOMED.”

I’m not going to sugar coat the rest of the drive to the school BBQ.  It wasn’t pleasant and doesn’t represent any of my more stellar parenting moments.  But we, as parents, must take triumph in the small things, if only for self-preservation.

Mia, as it turns out, has a great knack for vocabulary.  She MAY turn out to be a cruel, un-empathetic, callous individual who triumphs in art of torturing others, but she’s a quick learner of new words.  And we have to take our small victories where we can get them.  Otherwise -- you got it -- WE.  ARE. DOOMED.

Mother's Day : A lesson in Gratitude

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I will not be posting a picture perfect snap of me and my kids on our idyllic Mother’s Day this year.

I awoke at 7am to the simultaneous ring of my pager (I’m on call) with the impending news of 2 new admissions, as well as the voice of my children asking why I wasn’t out of bed yet...No sleep in for me this year.

I ate breakfast surrounded by a cranky Toby who is just recovering from gastro and still can’t eat and a ravenous Mia who is now 1 week post gastro and making up for lost time while gloating about it to her queasy brother.  Needless to say, it wasn’t the big family brunch we have had on past years.

I spent my morning rounding on the inpatients at the hospital, answering phone calls, putting out fires, discussing CT scans with radiologists and antibiotic adjustments with pharmacists,  and missing out on the fun family adventures my crew was having at the lake.

When I had finally finished at the hospital I ventured out on a bike ride.  Right when my odometer joyfully announced that I was at the 15km halfway mark of my ride the heavens opened up and a down pour ensued.   Quite possibly the very WORST time for the rain to start while on a bike ride, I now had the full 15 km distance to do over again in the rain.

And then, after making a wonderful big meal for my family for Mother’s Day,  I got called in to assist in the OR the second I went to dish out the plates.

Sound awful?  Well…actually…not so fast…

So here's my picture :

Please ignore the state of all of us in this picture.  We are dishevelled; on call hair and glasses for me, post gastro pallor for my kids.  But we are smiling.

We are smiling because, for the first time in 8 days, we are healthy. You know that innate sinking feeling of unsettledness you get when your kids are sick?  Mine dissipated this morning.  And what follows is a joyous explosion of the heart called gratitude.  Despite the bleariness, my eyes are announcing that all is right in my world again.

Yes, I had to work today, but I’d venture to say that working in the hospital on Mother’s day is one of the best days of the year to do so.  There were cakes and treats everywhere.  Nurses gave out hugs and patients wished me a Happy Mother’s day.  I brought roses to hand out and my colleague brought cookies.  As we passed them out to patients and staff the smiles grew.  One lady in particular, a withered soul with a wispy voice saw me handing a rose out to one of my patients in the next bed and sweetly asked, “Is that a …FLOWER?”  I told her it was and offered to give her one,

“Oh, YES” she said excitedly in the saddest, oldest voice ever, “I would LOVE a flower.”  I put it into a styrofoam cup of water and placed it on her table.  “THANK YOU” she exclaimed breathlessly, “It’s BEAUTIFUL.”  She smiled so hard I thought her teeth might fall out. 

I left the hospital that morning feeling appreciated, and hoping fervently for these sweet old souls that I wouldn’t be their only visitor today.

And then I went on my bike ride.  I was indeed at the farthest point in my ride when it started to rain, but as I ventured down a different road to make the return shorter, I rode past a cemetery, with a long line of cars in front of it.  I watched as people offered flowers, in the rain, to their loved ones.  "What could be worse than biking in the rain?" I had thought to myself only a few minutes earlier...I then had 14km of fresh rain and solitude to reflect on how lucky I am not to have to send or receive flowers in a cemetery this mother’s day.

And the dinner time interruption?  A new mom in the waiting…a baby in an undesirable position…my very favourite operation to assist with  - - a Csection.  What a privilege it is to help ease a new being into the world and in doing so, create a mother…on Mother’s day.

It might not have been my perfect Mother’s Day.  But it offered a perfect perspective on what’s important in life.

Happy Mother’s day, Everyone.  May it find you all healthy, dry, appreciated and full of gratitude.

The Processing of Grief

My dad’s best friend died last week.  It has been an interesting test of his dementia and the depths of his brain, breaking the news to him and watching, waiting, hoping, and wondering HOW and IF this was going to set in.

When I say “best friend” I’m not referring to some octogenarian who lives down the road and shares the same unfortunate bowel habits as my dad.  I’m not even talking about the men he meets regularly for lunch to discuss world events with.

I’m talking about Paul.

Paul - my father’s oldest and longest-standing friendship.  Paul.  His fellow Canadian who studied at Oxford while my dad was at Cambridge in post war-ravaged England. Paul.  Who lived in my dad’s basement when his first wife left him.  Whom my dad chose to accompany him to Cortina, Italy, to play hockey with where they ate like Kings and were treated like royalty, sharing elaborate banquets of food and middle of the night pillows fights with the beautiful Italian Marquesa.  Paul.  With whom he spent countless hours commuting across Europe via train, all the while discussing poetry, philosophy, life and wisdom. 

Paul knew the depths of my dad’s mind before any of the rest of us had even met him.  My father was already 51 years old when I was born.  He and Paul were old souls by that time. 

“Oh, PAUL” my dad would say.  He started every story about him the same way, with a jokingly unapproving shake of his head, “OH Paul…” and a laugh, “I REMEMBER the day…”

Many stories would talk of Paul’s turbulent times, the times his marriages failed, the times my dad skated faster, studied harder, achieved greater.  Oh, Paul.

What his patronizing “Oh Paul” statements often neglected to mention were the many accomplishments “poor Paul” managed to achieve subsequent to his two-year sojourn in my father’s basement; a successful TV and film producer, a father, a member of the Order of Canada, a published author, the husband several beautiful women, one of which turned out to be his ultimate soul mate.  Both my dad and Paul managed, somehow, despite their mutually head shaking flaws, to become successful intellects, fathers and, on subsequent attempts, lucky, happily devoted husbands.

Ironically, these two men who were so competitively similar in their early days, greeted their final aging process in drastically different ways.  While my dad’s brain withered, Paul’s remained strong and vibrant enough to witness and rebel against the decay of the rest of his body.  He fought hard against his first heart attacks: he started meditating and drastically changed his diet and his drinking. 

“Oh Paul” my dad would say after he would hobble his scrawny legs upstairs for a drink after his daily meditation.  “Ooooh, Paul.”

He NEVER forgot who Paul was.

What a cruel twist of fate that these two aged so differently. 

Paul fought hard against death.  He worked until the bitter end and published his last and final book of an 8-volume saga just weeks before his sudden demise.  He died with his head held high and his wits about him while my dad slowly withers, his mind taking over his ability to do anything with what is left of his body.

You know instantaneously that someone’s death is going to impact you when their demise affects your calendar so drastically.  My mother cried for days, changing and cancelling dates she had prearranged in their calendar for Paul’s upcoming trips, celebrations and his last and final book launch.

“He always brought sunshine to our house,” she lamented.

“OH, Paul…” said Dad, not entirely sure why his wife was crying.

The night she decided to tell my father the news, my mom told him over a signature drink of vodka on ice - -not something they ever indulged in, but a staple for Paul since his latest health kick.

“He gets it.” were all the details I got via a text that night.  I certainly hope he got it enough to console her at least.  I had no other choice but to believe it.

It wasn’t until last weekend that I was down for the weekend to spend some time with him while my mom was running a conference that I got my answer.

I knew right away that something was off because dad was sitting on the hallway stairs.  He has many perching spots, but halfway up the stairs isn’t one of them.  As often happens with Alzheimer’s patients, our turning up was a surprise for him, so he put down the package he was looking at and rejoiced in the sudden unexpected visit of family.

“Hey, Lyssie!” he said, smiling excitedly, “And Mia!” 

He was neither halfway up nor halfway down but somewhere in-between.

His excitement faded when he looked down at his hands and saw what he was holding.  Paul’s last and final book.  Its published version had just arrived in the mail.

“Or at least…I THINK it came in the mail” he said looking with puzzlement at the strange packaging that lay strewn across the bottom steps.

“Ah yes…” he said, forgetting once again what was making him sad, “Paul Almond!  He wrote this!”

He opened to the page where the insert held the information he was trying so hard to process,

“Lyssie…” he said as he looked at the glossy picture of his beloved friend smiling up at him, “Why does it say In Memoriam…1926 to 2015…did he…?”

There was a tear.

Just one.  And one heartbreaking look as he tried so desperately to understand.

“Yes dad.” I said as straightforwardly yet sympathetically as possible, “Paul died.”

“When?”

Last week.

“How?”

His heart.

“Oh…” he said, “You knew.”

And then, just like that, in a mere flash of an instant, my dad’s heart, with all the strength and stability that Paul’s so unfortunately lacked…just forgot.

“Oh, PAUL.” He said as he gathered up his cane and hobbled up to greet his Granddaughter.  “Did you just drive down today?  I was just getting the mail…”

It was 80 odd years of love and friendship and competition.  And I can’t help but ask the question: which one came out victorious? 

Oh, Paul.  How much you will be missed.

Oh, Dad…how much we miss of you.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder...

As a parent, whenever I go away for a night or two, be it for business or pleasure I am met with an insurmountable amount of guilt.  I imagine my bereft household grinding to a halt of inactivity and mourning in my absence and I appease my guilt by cooking meals in advance, scheduling play dates and activities and calling and texting regularly during my time away.  The last time I went away (for a whopping 48 hours) I baked a 2 layer banana cake and stuffed it with hidden popsicle sticks with cute messages like “Mommy loves you!” and “Hugs and kisses from me! xoxo” on them.

The kids LOVED the cake but lets be honest - -my absence did not rock their world.  The managed JUST FINE without me, with or without my secret cake messages.

I have been coming to accept the fact that they are growing up and becoming more independent and practical beings.  They have such full and complete lives that my absence for 48 hours, although perhaps a good bargaining tool at bedtime, doesn’t DEVASTATE them as it used to.  I’ve consoled myself with the rationale that it’s not a reflection of our relationship as much as a simple fact that they are maturing and getting to be more self sufficient.

Or so I told myself.

Last Monday, however, The Worst Thing To Ever Happen To Mia occurred without much forewarning OR a homemade double decker banana cake with hidden popsicle sticks with messages of love on them.

Jack Jack went to Mexico.

For a whole week.

I suppose we could have prepared her better for it.  Assuming she would treat it as she often treats my absences I didn’t so much as mention it to her until the day of. They left on Monday afternoon and somehow still managed to fit in a playdate on the morning of.

By Tuesday, however, Mia’s spidey senses knew something was up.  After asking me about 3 different times at breakfast who she was going to hang out with that day it still hadn’t registered that Jack was NOT on the list of options.  So she met Candice at the door in a desperate attempt,

“Hi, Candice.” She said getting right to the point, “Today is TUESDAY.  Are we or are we not going to the gym at the Y today with Jack Jack?”

Shot down for the 4^th time that day.

Wednesday and Thursday mornings didn’t go any easier.  Each time the feigned ignorance, sometimes she cried.  ALWAYS she pouted.  By Friday she was desperate.

“Mommy.” She said to me, taking a different approach as she was eating her yoghurt, “Jack is coming home from Mexico TOMORROW, I think, so we are going to have a playdate.”

“Oh,” I replied honestly, not realizing I was being tested, “I thought he wasn’t home until Monday…”

“Well…CANDICE says he’s not home until Monday but I SAY he’s home tomorrow.”

I explained to her that if Candice and I BOTH thought he wasn’t home till Monday we were probably right.

She was exasperated and took it out on her toast as she flung it down on her plate in a giant huff of rage,

“I have been ASKING for a PLAYDATE with Jack Jack all WEEK!”

After a quick lesson on appropriate breakfast table manners, I took a different approach.

“Mia,” I said, “Why don’t we get Toby’s globe out and I will show you where Mexico is.”

This perked her up.

We got the globe out.  I showed her how close together Toronto and Collingwood seem to be on the globe yet how FAR apart they really are (that REALLY long car ride where you can watch SIX episodes of Sid the Science Kid and STILL not be there quite yet!) and THEN I pointed all the way down to Mexico and explained that it would take over THREE DAYS to drive there.  (Which is an inconceivable number of episodes of Sid the Science Kid…)

Mia’s jaw hit the ground.

Why on EARTH would Jack Jack have DRIVEN that far away!?!?!

I explained that he had actually taken an airplane but that I was just trying to demonstrate to her how FAR AWAY it is and that we can’t just go join him for a play date.

NOT SO FAST, Wisecrack.

 Why, then, if Jack Jack had flown there, couldn’t WE just go fly there and join them?

A tempting idea, granted, I reminded her of our recent family trip to Florida but promised that maybe one day we could take a trip with Jack Jack’s family and go somewhere all together.

That seemed to satisfy both of us and we put the globe away and finished our toast in near silence, until off in the distance Mia spotted a little boy riding a bike.

“Hmm….” She mused, “Who do you think that boy is down there, Mommy?”

I told her I didn’t know.

“Well…” she said knowingly, “That bike SURE does look like Jack Jack’s bike!”

Now it was my turn to throw my toast down.

“MIA!” I said, “That is NOT Jack Jack – he is in MEXICO that is just SOME other boy riding an orange bike on the trails.”

Mia was not so sure.  I suppose we just agreed to disagree as she got down from the breakfast table, thoroughly disgusted and muttering under her breath, “Well it looks a lot like Jack Jack’s bike to ME!”

Thankfully we managed to keep the princess occupied for the rest of the day on Friday. The nice weather helped.  In fact, I had all but forgotten about Jack Jack and his traumatic disappearance until Sunday morning.   We were having a lazy day; Rob and Toby were watching the soccer, I was reading the paper online and Mia was bustling around collecting things and being her usual busy body self.  We weren’t paying much attention to her at all until she arrived in the basement and parked herself in front of the TV with her hands on her hips and made an announcement.

Dressed in a summery dress with princess shoes, a necklace and a fully packed knapsack on her back, Mia smiled from underneath the huge sombrero she had managed to dig up out of the costume box and announced, “Goodbye!  I'm going to Mexico!”

I know I am in the minority of people who think this but I’ll say it anyways…THANK GOD ITS MONDAY.

Mia, sporting an authentic sombrero, about the hit the road for Mexico

Those Eyes

 My parents were up for a visit to commemorate the surplus of Pisces in our immediate family.  After a lovely weekend of celebrations we were met with the unfortunate reality of Monday morning and all that ensues.  Getting both kids to their respective schools as well as both parents to work on time is a daunting task at the best of times; when you throw two grandparents into the mix it ads an added layer of helpfulness AND chaos.

Today’s craziness had the surprise component of my father's early wake up.  So amidst the lunch making, backpack-packing, last minute book reading, teeth brushing, breakfast eating, and snow pant adorning, we had to take turns running upstairs to reassure my dad of where he was, what he was doing and where we all were. 

The system, though somewhat inefficient, was working.  We were making progress.

At one point I had run upstairs to get a hairbrush (yes, the infamous hair brush) when I saw my dad sitting on his bed with his top half dressed, and his bottom half 90% done with the exception of his pants that were pulled up just above his knees.

He was sitting there very still, cane in hand, staring at the wall.

“Dad?”  I asked cautiously,  “what are you doing…??”

“Oh, Lyssie GOOD.” He said with a sigh of relief, “Come help me.  I can’t remember how to put my pants on.”

He looked up at me with a mix of helplessness and relief in his eyes.

Oh, those eyes…that once read Ulysses and The Great Code and everything every written by Plato.   That have seen the inside of all of the great art galleries, museums and churches throughout Europe.

That ravenously soaked up every lecture given by Northrop Frye at the University of Toronto and experienced life in the halls and dormitories of Cambridge University.

Those eyes, that once chased pucks and players on the frozen outdoor rinks of Cortina, Italy, and later meticulously scrutinized novice hockey players (Gretzky included) from across Ontario.   

Those eyes now begged me to help him.   

“Sure, Dad” I said as I scooped my arm under his shoulder, “Let me hoist you up and it’ll make things easier.”

We got him up and I pulled his pants on for him, buttoning them up quickly before he landed back on the bed.

“There you go – easy!  You’re all dressed.”

“So I am!” he said joyfully.

And with a quick kiss on the cheek and a reminder that his beloved wife was downstairs, it was back to the rush for me.  Pushing away the sadness of this moment, I was left with one single thought of comfort: for today, at least, those eyes still know who I am.

And Now you are 7

Your dramatic Tap Dancing pose...

And now you are 7

You’ve waiting a long time, 7 years precisely, to be the age that is your favourite number. And finally the long wait is here.  No doubt you will bound out of bed at 7:00 to announce to us and the world that NOW you are SEVEN.

OR perhaps you won’t. Because, lets face it kid, you’re not exactly a morning person. Most mornings you roll out of bed around 7:30 all scraggly haired and dopey eyed, refusing to even DISCUSS breakfast options until you’ve had at least a few moments of silent sitting, taking the day in until you are ready to join in and be a part of it.

This has always been your approach to life, Toby. You observe first, and act later.  I have to say, the world would be a better place if more people (myself included) adopted this philosophy…

The one exception to your wake up ritual is on Mondays and Wednesdays when your little sister has to go to daycare and is rushed out of the house by 7:15.  You usually make a very VERY groggy appearance, sometimes with your pants or shirt on backwards or inside out.  But you make the effort to be there if only for that split second before she goes out the door, so you can send her off on her day with a morning hug.  You understand the full importance of your morning hug; on mornings when you don’t make it down in time, I am faced with a groggy, dopey eyed, scraggly haired and often CRYING Toby.

Yes, that’s right, you cry.  I hear your rushing down the stairs frantically and then quite literally see your heart breaking when you realize she has already been whisked off before you got to give her a goodbye hug.   The love you have for your little sister, and she for you, is another thing you’ve taught me.  I thought only a parent’s love ran that deep; yours and Mia’s is a pretty close second.

By the time we get to the car ride to school you are your usual chatty self, managing to fill the entire 6-minute drive (YOU timed it) with a vast array of conversation topics. 

My absolute favourite came about last week.   I had been awarded all of 10 seconds of silence when you suddenly heaved a great, dramatic SIGH from the back seat and announced to me that you were “The happiest you have ever been in your entire life.”

You might not understand this until you have kids of your own, Toby, but there is absolutely NOTHING better to hear as a parent.  The suddenness and earnestness of your statement choked me up and it took me a second to regain my composure in order to ask you more details about this sudden burst of euphoria.

“OH, I don’t know,” you said casually, “Maybe I’m just excited for my birthday….”

Maybe you were. But maybe also it’s also because you DO have a pretty sweet life right now.

Go #7, Go!

You excel at SO many things; sports, reading, math and tap dancing just to name a few.  And then there are your random skills like your incredible ability to read sports stats in the newspaper and replicate sports stats “just for fun” (How weird is that??)  Or your keen interest in geography and your crazy knowledge of every country’s flag that is on your flag placement.  (Which is about 88…and, I dare say, a ludicrous number of flags to know by heart at your age!)

You have a great capacity to love.  You love Zack and are often the only one in the family to give him the attention he deserves each day.  You love your friends and care deeply and with great concern when they are away sick from school or get into trouble…and you love your family.  You say this each and every night when you wake up and insist on hugging us all before we part for the day.  You express this at dinner each night with your heart felt graces imploring the world to always keep us together.  And you say this at bedtime with your intimate chats and good night snuggles.

You may not love Arts and Crafts but you love Valentines day

How can you NOT be anything but completely happy when you exude so much love to the rest of the world?  I read something fitting for this the other day : “Happiness is like jam.  You can’t spread even a little without getting some on yourself”.

That quote is perfect for MORE than one reason.  But it’s your birthday so I won’t even MENTION your incredible ability to be the MESSIEST EATER I HAVE EVER MET.

You’re an old soul, Toby.  Your methodical and thoughtful approach to each day and each new situation has taught even your old mom a valuable new skill.  You know what’s important in life – morning hugs, friendship, kindness and meaningful conversations.  But most of all, you find meaning, joy and opportunities for growth in everything you do.  I have learned so much from you in our 7 years together; I’m a lucky mommy to have you as my boy.  I can’t wait to see where you are in 7 more…

Love and hugs today and always

XO  x99

(Guess who taught me THAT trick??)

Your birthday morning at breakfast...not so bleary eyed today! Amazing what presents and muffins can do...