Happy Birthday to John

John at six.

Driving through North Carolina on a recent vacation. I squished into the far back between John and Ainsley to keep them company for a while. I wasn't happy to spy this on the back of the headrest:

But then I peered at the headrest in front of John and found this:

Hiking through the Smokey Mountains. Upon the advice of a friend who is an experienced hiker, we decided to forego the hike deemed moderate  in favor of the one considered family friendly. Good choice. Really good choice. We clomped through miles of mud, sometimes eight inches deep. John lost his shoes a few times. He found snail shells, minnows, and gems, lots and lots of gems. And sharks' teeth. And who are we to set the record straight in the face of John's unbridled joy?

We trudged through the muck. John sprinted. We began to grouse. He loved every minute of  it. On our return hike, John begged and begged to ditch his shoes that were by that time full of mud and pebbles. Finally I caved.

"I'm free!," he yelled. "I'm free! Ouchhhhhh!"

Trolling the waters of Lake Erie with Grandpa. Determined to catch his first fish. And he did.

Burning up with fever the night before his birthday. "Mama," he calls. "Come snuggle." He watches Scooby Doo meets the Harlem Globetrotters for the nineteenth time.

Searching the beaches of Pelee Island for sea glass. Our biggest haul? Seventy-two pieces on the west side of the island. We're looking, looking, looking, and then John spies treasure and dashes off to explore. A minute later he scampers back to my side, reaching for my hand. His hand is soft and brown; my hand is veiny and freckled. For years my sister teased that he was switched at birth. He doesn't have my looks.

But he has my heart.

I love this brown-eyed fire cracker of a boy and thank God every single day that he's mine.