We have had three years together as a family of three. I was thinking recently that you probably won't remember these years, to you it will feel like you always had a sibling. I am glad to be a family of four, but I will remember that it was not always so. Since getting married, your daddy and I have been a family of two, three, five, four, two, then three again. You never met your three older sisters, but they made me a better mom before you came along. I didn't think I would have another daughter after them, but then baby Robin surprised us. Four daughters and a son. I wish I could hear you say to people, "I have four sisters." You would get a lot of sympathetic looks and some comments like, "No wonder you're such a sympathetic man." That thought makes me chuckle even though I know it will not be so.
You and I have had a perfect day. I am glad that this morning I set everything else aside just to play with you. I made you some cutout knights, we sat on the floor, and we went to the park. Just you and me. After lunch you told me you were ready for nite-nite and we fell asleep, snuggled in your bed. It has been three years of you and me being two peas in a pod. Going everywhere, but mostly nowhere, together. I have seen every tear, heard every word, lost it with you, and found myself with you. Things will change soon, things always change, but there will be plenty of room for more adventures.
I love you.