Dear Calhoun,

Today you are two seasons old.  You are one spring and one summer.  Six months ago, you blasted into our world, and we’ve been running around like crazy people ever since.

But there are quiet moments, here and there.  Sometimes when I rock you, and you snuggle up into my neck, fingers playing with my hair, and you sing your baby song… I am absolutely dazed by how wonderful my life is.  My arms are perfectly full, the weight of a chubby, squishy YOU– well, I know we were made for each other.  You for being held, and me for the holding.  It’s the best, best feeling in the world.  I don’t want another single thing in that moment.  I live for those sweet seconds.

You are growing too fast, of course.  You crawl, and have been for longer than I want to contemplate.  I know this foretells much mischief to come.  I can already see that you view yourself as one of the crew.  You’re not a baby, in your mind at all.  You are just short. You already give kisses, and want to wrestle with Daddy…  yes, it’s happening much too quickly.

You are loved every direction you turn.  Someone is always trying to make you laugh, give you a toy, possibly use you as something to hurdle.  You are wide-eyed, but getting used to life.  Very little phases you now.  It’s all just par for the course.  You fit us like a glove, and our family wouldn’t be complete without you.  I thank God every day for bringing you to us.

Happy half a year, Short Stuff.  You got here just as the party was starting, and we’re so glad you did.