Dear Miles,

It’s your birthday which means I fall into a depressing state as I remember your days of yesteryear and the tiny little bundle of angst you were. 7 years you torpedoed into our lives and you’ve been barreling through life ever since. You are an animated, loving, charismatic creature which is far from the adjectives I would have used when you were two. You were the kid who would break down at a moment’s notice for reasons unknown. You were the kid who would decide at any given moment that you were done therefore everyone should be done. You were busy, reckless and whiny beyond compare. You’re still those things but on a more mature level–you’re more like Dad now.

You are the mini version of your Dad in so many ways. From the visual similarities to the inappropriate gestures and comments, you are no doubt, without question, your father’s son. Of all the things you’ve inherited from your Dad, one thing stands out the most–your running ability. This gene missed me completely. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have an anti-running gene. My body hates running with an innate burning passion. To watch you run distances with ease and speed with your Dad brings me so much joy because a.) your Dad no longer harasses me to run with him and b.) I’m watching you do something that you are inherently great at.

You run regularly with Dad and often compete in local 5k races where you often place in your age group. The past 3 races you’ve participated in, have resulted in continued pace performance. At the most recent 5k, you ran an impressive 5k in 22.28! That is roughly a 7 minute mile maintained over 3 miles!! You are insane and otherworldly. Your Dad will comment to me, you should run with Miles…um, no thanks. I think I’ll just drive alongside you yelling words of encouragement from my window. That’s definitely more my speed.

Despite the interesting Fall Ball season we experienced a couple years ago when your Dad vowed to never participate in another Fall Ball season, here we are once again playing baseball. I feel like we’re finally entering divisions where you’re actually playing real baseball and not t-ball. You’re finally pitching in a game–something you’ve been itching to do forever now. You’re finally catching fly-balls and working towards turning double plays. You understand the game and you really truly love it. You ask to practice daily, much to my chagrin and often resort to just throwing a tennis ball at the side of the couch if you can’t. You’re a funny guy because you watch baseball games and pick up on their habits and quirks. I noticed your batting stance had changed and as a result, your hitting was a bit off. Turns out, you were standing like Khris Davis who stands with the bat perfectly vertical to his body. It’s a bizarre stance but it works for him because he has incredibe upper body strength. You’re still a stick so a power stance like that, does not bode well for you. Another day when you were catcher, I noticed that you were calling pitches to your pitcher with random finger signals. Your pitcher had no clue what you were doing nor do I think you knew what you were calling but it made you “official.” You’re constantly observing and learning and that combined with your love and passion, makes you an incredible player. Your Mom thinks so at least and that’s all that matters. Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me…

As your Mother, I will always believe that there isn’t another person in this world good enough for you. I used to laugh at the cliche but I’m beginning to understand. You are my precious baby boy and your charismatic nature attracts a lot of interest. I think of one particular young lady in your class who you’ve developed a friendship with and when I see her run up to you and wrap her arms around you and you in turn hug her back and nuzzle your face into her neck, my heart breaks a little bit. I don’t want our mother-son relationship to turn weird a la Norman Bates but I’m your Mom dammit and I demand all the love.

Your female friend/companion recently invited you to her birthday party at the SPCA and I quickly learned that nobody else from your class that I knew of was invited. I couldn’t help but envision this scenario where it’s just you and her having a candlelight chicken nugget dinner amongst the kittens. Turns out, you weren’t the only friend but you were the only boy invited who wasn’t family. Her parents introduced themselves to me and mentioned how they’ve heard so much about you. I’m sure they had you adorable little ladies man, you. If I had a dollar for every parent that walked up to me and told me how much they’ve heard about you from their daughter and how their daughter adores you so, I would be a rich lady who no doubt should be setting up some kind of fund for your future offspring. Please don’t make me a young grandma.

We’ve come a long way together. You were an impossible baby and I often feared that one of us would not make it out alive. I think at one time, your Dad would have entertained a third child but you nipped that in the bud so fast that the door closed before I could argue my case. You were difficult, emotional and wild but I loved you unconditionally for the rambunctious spirit you were/are. You have grown into this young man with so much personality and love and I feel so much happiness and pride in you. Watching how happy people are around you, makes my heart full and awe-inspired that you’re in our world.

Keep being you–continue to show love to the snakes because “they’re so cuddly and deserve love too.” Continue to show respect to your friends and family (I know you’re working hard on that with Olivia). Never lose your passion and drive for the things that make you happy. The occasional dirty joke is ok but only when the situation and audience is appropriate. Rock that crazy hair of yours because time is fleeting and your hair genes do not stand up to the test of time. Keep smiling and party like the wild one you are.

Happy Birthday, my son. Thanks for making the world a little brighter, a little louder, and a lot more joyful.

Love,

Momma