Happy Third Birthday, Dude.
Three years ago they told me you were about to die, and they needed to send me to the OR to get you out safely. And they did. And I knew you’d be trouble because our whole family is screwy, but I didn’t know we’d have actual issues. Real ones. Issues that will probably need professional help.
And it doesn’t matter.
You are a beautiful boy, pretty, even, and when I’ve looked at you I’ve shot forward ten years to when the girls will be calling the house asking for you, and I’ll tell them to go away because you’re doing your homework. You will, right? You won’t be me?
And because the world is such, that you are beautiful and will be a lady killer with those eyes and that face, everything will work out for you, right? Because ain’t that America? Looks work first? Personality, which you have tons of, shoehorns in?
On May 18th I’m taking you and your horses to the doctor. You have issues beyond the usual. The grimaces, the face squinching, the growling, the sudden yells that have no discernible catalyst, the pageant wave, the shoulder jerks, all of the rest…
Kids can be mean. Kids WILL be mean. It’s what they do. No, I don’t really understand why on an emotional level. But I know, right now, that if anyone can show the world that they are beyond their troubles- you can.
You stubborn, funny, loving little man.
This was not something I ever considered. We still hope you’re just a weird kid, because all kids are weird. But if this comes to pass-
We ALL have your back. And once your big sister gets her jealous head out of her ass she’ll be your greatest ally.
Because she loves you.
We all do.
I watch you with the herd over at the horse farm, and I know what you need now. You’re so relaxed over there. So calm. No jerking. No squinching. No yelling.
We’re staying here, in this immediate area, for you. And we don’t even mind.
Those horses, on that perfect farm, know that you need them. They know they should care for you. They know you adore them. They think you’re pretty cool, too.
And you are. You always will be.
Just quit trying to break your neck diving off the sofa, okay?
Happy Birthday, Jonas.
We love you.