Happy Birthday sweet boy...

And then to complete the series, I searched for a good recent picture of Q and realized they're all either of him scowling or like this...


...which I suppose is OK, because he's twelve now and I think that's how it's expected to be.

Twelve years ago this morning I was walking up and down our street with my mom, trying to jump-start those forces of labor. I needn't have bothered. It was, you see, my actual due date and my son is the ultimate epitome of a rule-follower. He took his first steps on his first birthday. One of my goals is to help him learn to question authority. Those lessons will come after he's done being a teenager, though.

When this perfect, beautiful brand new baby was just home from the hospital I broke down into tears because he, who was obviously perfect, had been given ME as a mom - who knew nothing about little boy babies. I would sit and rock him for hours and feel guilty for depriving the rest of the world the chance to meet him. I was a cliche. I still am.

Q I love you more than you can understand right now. Which is a good thing because you are embarking down a tumultuous several years. I'll keep hanging on and when you're out of the adolescent hormonal rebel against your parents teenager phase, we'll watch some Monty Python together and laugh. And I'll never stop being proud.