This past weekend, we celebrated A’s 2nd birthday. This involved a playground picnic, a trip to the zoo, and his favorite songs playing on repeat as we drove around town (did you know that the word “lollipop” is said 46x in the song “Lollipop” by the Chordettes? Because I did). 

This also involved him accepting pretzel bribes in exchange for sedentary patience at his brothers’ overlapping soccer games, two Slurpees in one day (apologies to pediatric dentists everywhere), and opening gifts while standing atop the kitchen table… because what is childhood as a third-born if not spent in part benefiting from the lowered standards of your more veteran parents?

At 2 years old, A is my “sunshine” baby, owner of the world’s most bashful smile, and the fiercest bro of them all. In a span of 10 minutes, he will have a sympathetic melt-down upon witnessing one of his older brothers get hurt, and then snatch a toy straight out of their hands, proclaim “mine,” and push them around just to drive home the point. He is the great household explorer, locating every danger we could have sworn we’d baby-proofed long ago. He is part of whatever action is happening, evinced by his most recent verbal addition of the phrase “wat[ch] me, Mom!” as he mimics whatever risky behavior his brothers — who have substantial advantages in size, mobility, and (evidently) depth perception — are engaging in. His happy place is swaying on a swing, his favorite book is “Where’s Spot?” and he gives – without question – the greatest running hugs upon daycare pickup. He may live in a wardrobe exclusively comprised of hand-me-downs, but he is definitely one-of-a-kind. 

Happy birthday, Scooch.