That’s the first thing I ever remember hearing about my son. I hadn’t even met him yet, he was still half buried in my womb. He’d punched out arm first (thanks for the stitches, kid,) and his head was emerging. One of the midwives made the comment. I was in the grips of pain and wonder and had no idea what she was talking about.
Two minutes later, my son was wiggling around on my chest; his bright red hair a beacon amongst the muted hospital pastels.
He turns three this weekend. Three. And his hair just keeps getting more red. I tend to ignore all the myths you hear about red-headed kids; how they tend to get sicker, how they tend to be short tempered, but I do have to say, his personality reflects the hair (or maybe vice versa?). He’s passionate, yet incredibly tender. He’s kind, but helplessly curious. A troublemaker who’s utterly charming.
Here he is de-pantsing at the Moffett Airfield Museum. The decorated veterans seemed unfazed. This photo was taken last summer, but I feel that it epitomizes the wondrous little dude that he is becoming. Every one of my days is filled with his questions, humming with his wonder.
I guess his red hair kind of is a beacon. His arrival illuminated my world in a whole new way.
So what if he feeds his sister coins or refuses to eat anything that’s not a carbohydrate. This weekend he’ll get as much cake as he wants.
Happy birthday, little guy. Go forth and conquer.