Seth, you are a man of many names. Someone recently called you a “spark plug”, and that’s fitting. Pistol. Rascal. Piece of Work. Short Stack. Short Pump (said with a southern accent). Short…Fuse? Look, you’ve been kind of short.
You are also a man of many personalities. Sometimes we get whiplash trying to keep up with you. Let me demonstrate:
So, now you’re another year older and we’re another year
wiser deafer grayer. You have changed so much over this year! As a newly-minted five-year-old, you’d just started preK, you’d just begun to fine-tune your sense of humor, and you’d only traveled in the Midwest (save for one plane flight in infancy). Now you are a very worldly six-year-old: preK graduate, road-tripper, entertainer, full-on geek, Kindergartner extraordinairre, confident and effervescent and eager and loving and able to push buttons when brawn won’t get you what you want. “I’ve got the brains to match the brawn” is one of your catchphrases, I kid you not. And you should know that it’s true. Your will is just as strong as any muscle in your body, including your wonderful heart. We have never once doubted your sentience, because you will never let us forget you’re down there. (Enough of the short jokes, though, because you grew several inches this year too and I’m almost convinced you might not end up with your dad’s family’s legs after all.)
In short (ha!) you are never, ever boring. You abhor all things “BO-RRRRRRRING!” so it only makes sense that you would place a high value on mixing it up, keeping us guessing. From exasperating to hilarious to sublime and all things in between, our lives would not be the same without you in it.
You are a little love, too, for all my talk of your swagger. At bedtime, you still want me lying right next to you, smothering me with hugs and kisses and nuzzles until you drift into sweet, soft slumber. You look like my baby, then, even though you aren’t a baby any longer. I always reassure you, though, when you get a bit insecure about growing up: you will always be MY baby, even if you aren’t a baby. That shouldn’t make sense to you but it does, because you have a certain preternatural wisdom about you, too. You still claim you’d like to marry me, and tell Joe (not Papa or Dad, but JOE, like he’s your rival) that you kiss me more than he does. We try to show you up by kissing in front of you more often, then, but you counter with more kisses of your own. I’ll admit it…I somehow am stuck between wanting you to move on to one of your school loves (which: they are many, and intense, as I would expect from you) and wanting you to love me forever so I don’t have to share. But your love is wide as the sky, and there is more than enough to go around this whole wide world. I hope you always bubble over with your friendliness and love. I hope you always bend the ear of a stranger, or show concern for someone in trouble. You notice, and you give so freely. It’s a wonder to behold you.
Sometimes your dad and I look at one another over your perfect little blond head and silently question: what hath we wrought? In a few words: Mayhem. Joy. Volume. Pop-culture sponge/parrot. Ladies’ man. Napoleon Bonaparte part deux. A walking, talking thrill ride.
Thanks for taking us with you. We never knew how much we wanted to be on the roller-coaster that is you, but here’s hoping you’ll keep us along for all the ups-and-downs.
Happy birthday, Seth.