Toby is doing the strangest thing this week. Even though he’s my baby at heart, he is somehow turning eight…
One day old!
Wolfing it up.
Staring at the pretzel truck.
Reading with Daddy.
Just two dudes eating muffins.
Going on a date.
Good grief, it’s you!
And this is eight.
Toby has always had a big personality. He chats with people on the street. He remembers everyone’s name. He loves to dance. He knows his style (especially blazers). He can have some hard times, but I really understand him, and I can see myself in him. He has been a joy to raise.
It’s funny, too, because these eight years have flown by, but I also can’t remember what my life was like before he arrived on the scene. Even when I think back on long-ago trips or dinners, my mind edits him into the memories, as if he was always there. (Wait, he wasn’t on our honeymoon?) Does that ever happen to you?
Happy Birthday, Toby! We love you!
P.S. Toby and Anton in conversation, and one thing that surprised me about parenting.