August 11th is a pretty big deal around here.
I cuddled up with my girl this morning and told her about that night five years ago when we raced to the hospital to meet her. I told her about how soft her hair was and how drop-down perfect she was. Is. I told her all of it again, but it's a lot. One day she'll start to grasp the deep ocean love of that day.
Today, we partied just like we always do.
Boxed cupcakes, a few failed attempts at extra-special fun, a few stellar Plan Bs.
We even busted out the mini cans of generic cream soda like it was 1999.
Part of me wants to bundle this precious girl up like a way-back-when Chinese foot. I want to keep her compact and small, close, delicate, in need of me.
I love her story and being a part of it is a gift beyond what I deserve, but what I really look forward to is listening as she begins to tell it from her own perfect lips.
Happy birthday, 5-year old.
You stun me with your generosity.
You humble me with the depth of your heart.
You inspire me with your servant's heart.