Today Seth turns 8.
Last night when I prayed with him, I thanked God for this boy who made me a mom the first time. It was late at night, so close to the time of his birth, which was just after midnight. I told Seth how at that exact time eight years ago, I was working so hard to get him out, screaming and swearing, and it hurt so bad, and I was so tired. But then he was born, and I remember just instinctvely reaching down and scooping him up and pulling him to my chest. I cried, so relieved, so happy, so so in love.
I can barely believe that that first baby of mine is eight years old.
He’s a great kid. Loves reading and lego most of all. Takes good care of his brothers and sister. Helps with a happy heart, usually. He’s pretty quiet, and does his own thing a lot, and just needs some space, sometimes, but in the mornings, he’ll come sneaking into our bedroom and ask for a cuddle, and it’s just the best. He climbs right in, and spoons around me, his feet are almost where mine are, he’s getting so tall, and drapes his arm over mine and holds my hand. It doesn’t last long, and it might be the only affection given voluntarily in a day that I get from him, but it reminds me that he’s still my baby, and that he loves me.
Happy birthday Seth. I love you.