“Bailey, wake up! Bailey, you’re SIX! Happy birthday!” croaked an excited voice from the opposite side of the bed.
The warm mound of little sister curled between us slowly stirred, and then tiny toes suddenly clenched against my leg in realization.
“OH! Thank you, Parker! Can I kiss you now??”
Bailey Boles, how’d you ever get so sweet?
You spoil the world with genuine, loving affection, and it is my greatest hope that the world continues to spoil you right back. Your eyes only see the good in people, and your heart trusts others with complete, unquestioning commitment. Truly, my girl, you are every infomercial’s dream audience.
(It’s also worth mentioning that six-years-old has also found you with eyes that have learned to roll, a hand that notches quite comfortably on a popped hip, and an active pursuit of brother-taunting opportunities. Spunk is not all rainbows and snuggles, after all.)
I’ve stopped dreaming about what all you will do, and the person you will become, precious Bailey, because the little soul that you are is so far greater than any secret wish that I’ve carried for you… It’s a distinct honor and pleasure to just sit back and watch you unfold.
Bailey, I love you in a way that feels impossibly huge yet still desperately inadequate. You are my perfect Bean. Happy birthday.