My dearest, darling-est, only Man Cub:
Happy Birthday Eve, Jasper.
You are so incredibly close to two years old. You are also- at once- a squishy little baby-cheeked toddler and a decidedly stubborn male of the impatient persuasion. You ricochet between neediness (“Mama, Mama come, help you? UP. Mama“) and hittin’ the road, Jack.
Fun fact: Did you know that Jack Daniels’ first name is actually Jasper? You’re clearly destined for greatness, distillery or otherwise.
You are also destined for being smooshed and raspberried by your mother, every hour on the hour, forever and ever Amen. I wish I could say I was sorry for this, but I’m not. Even allowing for a little bit of maternal bias, you are The Most Kissable Boy I’ve Ever Met. (With true apologies to your Dad. He can’t get super upset, though, since you look just like him- and he gave you probably more than his fair share of your DNA. But guess what? He smooshes you, too.)
My semi-silent sentry, you miss nothing. You hear, see, and smell everything. There are no secrets during your waking hours and, upon your reentry into the day, you piece together the mysteries of what has been enjoyed or changed in your absence. And you want in.
You cook. You bake. Carefully, carefully, you create in the kitchen, with a seriousness not often found in little ones. Once, when you were full-on tantruming during dinner prep, I stood you on a chair, handed you a bowl of rinsed spinach, and instructed you to dry each leaf with a paper towel. You did. And you stacked the dried leaves in a bowl, handed the bowl to me with a proudly exclaimed “Mom,” and you beamed. All throughout that meal, I caught you smiling quietly at your sisters and Dad as they took bites of the salad.
“Jasper,” I asked you for their benefit. “Did you cook dinner tonight?”
“Yuh,” you responded with your trademark guttural, monosyllabic response. And then you smiled. And smiled even bigger when the praise came.
No big deal. Just a completely big kid thing to do.
Ah, magnet stew. So hearty.
You deconstruct remotes and program the stereo to play the exact Winnie the Pooh track at the exact volume you believe the situation calls for. You dance, you stomp, you laugh like a loon when your sisters do something hilarious. (Which is always. In fact, all three of those are always.)
You are the consummate passenger- especially between the hours of 7 to 9 a.m., 11:30 a.m. to 12 p.m., and 2 to 3:30 p.m. The looks you give me from the backseat destroy me, what with the world-weary humor in your eyes, the “Can you believe these girls? School again?”
But when it’s nap time, when it’s bedtime, you help me arrange your crib Just So. We read the books you choose Just So. We rock in the chair Just So for an appropriate length of time. (I know I’ve attempted to hurry the process along when I hear your whispered voice in my ear as your hand pats my cheek- “A’rock a’rock, Mama.” “Okay, buddy. A little more rock.”)
I love you for being our third kid. I love you for being my baby. I love you for reasons unrelated to your birth order. You were such a sweet baby, you are such a good little boy- and you’re going to be one heck of a great guy. (And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll deck ’em with a Winnie the Pooh CD.)
Happy birthday, Roo.
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