Monday, February 13, 2006


Dear Brayden,

Happy Birthday! Nine years ago today Blaine and I managed to fool someone in Heaven's Baby Placement Department into thinking we were mature enough to be parents, and that afternoon, you were placed in our arms. I’m not quite sure what they were thinking, as we could barely keep a houseplant alive, but we were thrilled. In fact, we haven’t stopped being thrilled since the day you were born.

I am sorry, though, that you got “starter” parents and have had to endure some of the dumber parenting mistakes that have been made in our family. Like the time I hit the “collapse” lever on the stroller and folded the whole thing by accident, with you still inside. Like the time I accidentally got your tummy-skin caught in the high-chair buckle and couldn’t figure out why you wouldn’t quit screaming. Like the first time we flew with you, a 10-month old, and let you gnaw on the flight-safety-instructions …. only to have you come down with the worst cold EVER a few days later. Like the time I lost you at church (although really, that was sort of your own fault, since you got on the elevator and pushed the button all by yourself at eighteen months and were perfectly content to wander the upper floors of the church building all alone, until a total stranger brought you back down to me, as I was near sobbing and hyperventilating by then.) Like the time … actually, maybe I should stop before I incriminate myself.

What small bits of parenting wisdom Blaine and I have gleaned over the years have most certainly come at your expense. When you are “first”, your mommy and daddy have to learn on your shift. No book or magazine prepares someone for being a parent. It might help us to develop a theory or two, but let’s be honest, all practical experience is done on the firstborn, the guinea pig of the birth-order. Then the next kid comes along and we feel like pros. So thank you for giving us nine years worth of confidence.

Thank you for bringing us, also, nine years of joy, laughter, and happiness. We love you dearly. Happy Birthday.


PS. In my previous post about the gentleman on yesterday’s flight, I want to make sure you realize that it wasn’t my intent to gripe about heavy people. I’m hardly a pixie-fairy, myself. Maybe that’s my point. Perhaps the airline should match people up at the same time they print the boarding passes, based on their physical size. I most likely wouldn’t mind sharing my seat with my neighbor’s ass, if I only weighed 100 pounds. BUT I DON’T, PEOPLE. My ass needed a seat all its own. That was my point.


Kendrie: “Well, Kellen is one inch taller than Brayden, but Dalton (our OKC cousin) is one inch skinnier than Kellen.”

PSS. M.E., we love you dearly and will be grateful to you always.

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