You broke my water around midnight on Cinco de Mayo. Your Dad was un-urgent and excited and sleepy. Weren't the streets unusually bustling for that time of night? We checked in to wait. I walked around the room with a view of the peak below which our little desert home was tucked. It was Cinco de Mayo and we were ready to celebrate. But first several paces and a handful of pushes were in order. Your grandma was there and I alternately draped my laboring body over her tiny shoulders and your Father's broad ones. Easy enough. No tubes, no cords, no monitoring of your arrival. Only the organic and timely process of my body facilitating your birth. Today you are one year. You are also wearing jeans and walking. May as well be twenty-one for as fast as it all came and went.
You tell us, "uh, oh" and "whazat", and "change it". You also tell us to slow down and enjoy the bugs in the grass, the fuzz on the couch, and the crumbs under the table. And we do because we're fascinated with you. You daily send us over the moon and back for more. You are one year. We know you don't like it when everyone sings a boisterous "Happy Birthday" to you. We know you like Lemon-Blueberry Buttermilk Bundt Cake with Lemon Glaze. And we know you're the cutest darn thing that we can't get over and think we never will. As the fourth child you share a special bond with your uncle Scotty and Jake (two people we happen to think mighty highly of) and your first birthday is really the first time we've had a chance to celebrate you. Maybe that's where the fourth gets his or her patient, forgiving heart. Happy first, Avery L.