When you entered the world, I was deprived of hearing that primal cry from your lips. With a cord-of-life wound tightly around your slender neck, the lack of oxygen had cast a greyish-blue palor on your skin. As the seconds turned to minutes, I wondered if I would ever hear you at all. Finally. A mewed whimper slipped past your lips.
This is how it started out, my son. Your life. Managing to pull others into your sphere of influence almost through no fault of your own. You have a captivating personality and have been quite a character from your earliest days.
I love that you still like to snuggle with me in the mornings.
I love that you think I am silly.
I love when you find me and say “I love you, too” as if we had just been discussing my feelings for you.
I love that, like your older siblings, the underside of your toes get warm when you get sleepy.
I love that you bring me books and ask me to teach you the words.
Mostly, I just love that you are you. Not like Beernut. Not like Poppyseed. Though not altogether different from your sibs, either.
Your infancy has flown by so quickly. Before I know it, it will be Shabbat Shemini 5780. [puh-puh-puh] Slow down…help me relish every moment.
Happy third birthday, Peach.
[By the way, so sorry you ended up with that as your in utero name. We foolishly let your sibs choose it in the hope of “establishing positive feelings towards the new addition to the family.” I disposed of that advice book right as soon as they named you after a character from Super Mario Bros.]