A Perfect Birthday

I'm not bragging on myself when I say we had the perfect birthday party. As you know, the most valuable takeaways from my adult life all involve doing less: "it's not your problem, Kinn" (?!... :)), "if it is not your (company's) core competency... outsource," and something snarky about "superfans" and inappropriate emotional investment. So we had a local artisan craft cakes, my BIL made the pinata, my SIL and MIL did so much prep work it take its own blog to document.

But I digress.

What I wanted to say was, Happy Birthday, Bo! You have become an awesome little kid. Your ridiculously long eyelashes and super velvety soft skin still make me think you are a baby, but your insatiable appetite for knowledge and your supernerdy proclivities challenge me.

What _is_ a Mandalorian Jetpack, anyway?

We had a handmade robot pinata, chocolate leaves on the cakes, games and children, family and chosen family, babies and beer. The sun dappled the lawn, and it was warm but not hot.

Baby Ahn got to celebrate her birthday a little early, and she loved running around with all the other littles.

I look at you, Bo, and I cannot imagine the black hole that would have engulfed my head had you not lived. The intense joy and privilege of parenting you is a result of that moment, when I was with you, alone in our hospital room, as you were dying. And I looked at you and thought, I don't know you yet. They say a mother will give up her life for her child. I don't know you yet. But I need to. So I am going to fight with everything I have to give you the time to become. To be. I don't think it was love, at that point that drove me. I just wanted the chance to get to know you, and for you to remember, even if it was just the slightest impression, me. You can't go, yet, I thought. We haven't even started. You won't remember me. You will only remember pain and fear. I want you to remember being loved and cherished. We need more time.

The longest-lived intestinal transplant patient died, recently. She was 22 years post transplant. I look at your face and think, 22 years is not enough. That is not good enough. That is not long enough. It's not long enough, dammit!

For now, you are running and jumping, reading and rioting, exuberant, defiant. I hope you know that we celebrate every day you are here. We are so blessed that we got to keep you here by our sides, just a little bit longer.