My dearest darling Cohen,
Happy third birthday my love.
Oh how you've grown and changed the past twelve months. I hardly know where to begin. It seems you have always been a part of our lives. It's hard to imagine that there were so many years that we were a couple and not yet a family. All that time I think we were waiting for you.
This morning we lay in bed together as a family as you unwrapped your presents and had us read you your new books. I wanted to hold you tight and not let go, hold tight to that memory of you as you are now. So sweet, so gentle, so loving. Chatting, hiding under the sheet, playfully rolling off the bed and triumphantly climbing back up again. I told you that three years ago you were in my belly, as your little brother or sister is now and that Dada took me to the hospital so you could be born. You rubbed my belly and smiled. You love to hear about you.
And you, you are also so indepedant now. Some days it's as amusing as it is frustrating. From undoing what I've done so that you can do it yourself, to demanding 'me do it' at every available opportunity. We've seen you climb back out of your bed once carried to it, in order to hop back in yourself. Walk half way up the stairs holding hands only to let go, walk back down and start again alone. Or shut the fridge at the bakery when we were buying you juice, so that you could open the fridge and pick the juice yourself. My dear little independant man. Sometimes though, you take my hand, let me carry you to bed and let me do things for you.
Your vocabulary has grown and you string together sentences now in the sweetest way. You dance to music. Your favourite book is a where is Spot book and you are always amazed when you find Spot at the end, hiding in the basket. You love to watch 'Thomas the Tank Engine' and yell 'Choo choo Thomas!' when you hear the theme song begin. You love your big boy bed, though you've fallen out twice. We find you in a different position each time we check on you. You love playgroup. You love apples and blue berries. You don't like chicken.
My dear sweet boy. Somethings can not be put into words, for words are not enough. You and I can only just know that I love you more than anything. And I always will.
Your loving mother.