This morning at 12:59 a.m., Gavin completed his first official calendar year of life outside the womb. As I reflect on the year, I'm amazed at how much less than a year it feels like. And I'm frightened that some measurable percentage of the time I have with my son is already expired—my computer-obsessed mind visualizing the progress meter crossing the 5% mark. God, let me waste no more moments worrying about how many moments I have left.
Amy and I spent hours this week watching video footage from when Gavin was between three and seven months old, chuckling about the differences (mostly in appearance) between the extremes. These days, though, his growth is mostly related to dexterity and language—precisely placing Fisher Price™ stacking rings; open and closing doors and drawers; saying "mama", "dada", correctly answering questions about the sounds that cars, dogs, cows, lambs, and donkeys make, uttering near-hits for "bye-bye" and "more", as well as not-so-near-hits for "down" and "bottle". Yesterday he even took his first few unassisted steps between Mommy and Daddy. He's smart enough to stay on the exact opposite side of the papasan when we chase him around it, recognizes the dull grinding noise of the garage door opener (which sends him searching and calling for Daddy, typically), and knows exactly where to crawl when Mommy says, "Let's go change your diaper."
Despite the number of times we heard how great it was to watch kids grow, we weren't prepared for it being this great. So happy birthday, son. Your mother and I love you very much.
