Today is the last day of my life that I will have a 4 year old, a 2 year old, and a 1 year old. Tomorrow Jude turns three, and I know that’s true because it’s what the calendar says, but it doesn’t make sense to my brain. 

Last night when the other boys got still, it was so late, and Jude said, “Mama, I need you to play with my hair,” and I did it because he’s so beautiful. He’s so confident. Last year I described him like this: 

I’ve never known such a light-hearted salad eating book-lover who is satisfied fading behind 300 kids or satisfied in a star position, playing alone. No one could ever endure a head injury like you and still be able to work an intricate toddler puzzle. You are a party, our funny, dare-devilishly cautious artist.

This year I add that he loves justice. He wants to see his brothers do right, and he is willing to say “I’m sorry,” when he feels it. Happy Birthday, Jude. I’m so glad to be your mama. You’re worth every stern face I spend on you. You’re worth the correction and the pot of your favorite beans. You’re worth more than what I have to give. I love you and the grace that oozes out.