happy birthday, cutie pie

My baby, my tiny little eensy weensy baby, turned three today.

Three.

3.

I so cannot even believe that. Three years ago this evening seems like just months ago. I was in my percocet-induced bliss, cuddling my sweet new tiny man, my perfect non-girl, in my arms. Everything smelled like hospital soap (my favorite smell in the world, because it reminds me of having babies) except for him. He smelled like Johnson's baby wash. Oh, he was just so perfect and tiny wrapped in the baby burrito hospital blanket.

He is my cuddly man and always has been. He likes to sneak into bed with me and Mark in the middle of the night, claiming it is "sca-wee" (scary) in his room, despite the fact that it's a mere 2 feet away from ours. He tells me all of the time that he loves me, and also tells me that he is a cutie pie. And he is right. He is a cutie pie. Funny and tiny and adorable and animated and everything else you could possibly adore packed into a 28-pound body.

Gray was even more excited about Everett's birthday than Everett was, and as soon as he woke up, asked Everett if, since now that he is three and a big boy, if he'd "like to wrestle." And then a few minutes later realized that Everett still looked two, and had not magically changed in appearance overnight. (Gray is Mr. Birthday... he LOVES birthdays, including anyone else's birthday. Love that kid.)

Happy birthday, Everett! And please, can't you grow up just a little bit slower?