My boy is one year old.
He turned one yesterday. We gave him his presents, since he will be so inundated at his party that we didn't want to overwhelm him any more than we had to. A bubble mower, a couple small trucks, a Fisher Price Push-and-Go alligator, and a book called Things That Go. Despite his father and I being mildly disappointed by the mower (the Boy can't push it fast enough yet to get the bubbles going on his own), he LOVES it and quite happily pushed it all over the back yard for a long time. Walking. On his own two feet, feet on which there are little niblet toes that I still love to nom. Thank goodness he still lets me nom his toes.
I sit with him, smelling the top of his head, which has been the most intoxicating scent in the world to me for the past 365 days. I would know my Boy anywhere just by the smell of his strawberry blond hair. I admire his chubby hands and reminisce over the teeny hands that wrapped around my finger so long ago- and yet five minutes ago, wasn't it? Of course, now the Boy has ME totally wrapped around his finger, but that's besides the point.
He's a year old.
I gave myself a moment to look back on the last year of my life. His birth, his milestones, his smiles and silliness, his illnesses and accomplishments. How every single day he has touched my heart. How every stage, every age, was my favorite. How he is my favorite age right now. How I wanted to slow down his growing up. How I am so excited to see our future.
And that's where we are now. Looking forward to the future.