Happy Birthday Caiders!

Elizabeth Stone astutely observed, " ...[T]o to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." The resonant truth of this reflection  exposes both our capacity for love and our capacity for fear. The depth of my affection for Kincaid has grown as aggressively as my imaginative apprehensions regarding his welfare since his auspicious arrival two years prior, today.  

With his arrestingly beautiful blueberry eyes and wicked, dimpled smile that admits guilt while insisting upon clemency, more often than not, I fear I am at his mercy.  And on some days when his contagious giggle causes his big belly to jiggle, I just want to consume him whole.  (How does a child become nearly edible?  I do not know.)

 This past year, Kincaid has presented no little challenge as his strong-willed nature was unleashed without apology: Passive aggression was utterly pre-empted by  thrown objects, physical assaults and - most amusingly- growling.  It has only been in recent months that he has begun to wield the confession, "I sawwee Mama" like a contrite politician- and generally with as much sincerity.  In truth, though Caid's tempestuous nature vexes and complicates even the most seemingly benign occasions, I am consoled that he will never be a meek, milk-toast man without conviction or commitment to a role.  There is little that he does without zeal whether it be in play, in fight, in laughter or in tears.   

In close, Kincaid Wallace has emerged as my diminutive "warrior poet" whose musical proclivities and love for Gaither gospel hymns may only be eclipsed by his affinity for reckless adventure and prohibited danger.  With a "Dennis the  Menace" toddle towards disaster, a lyrical song will always be found on his lips.  Never have I encountered such a melodious child who resurrects that Big Tent Revival spirit with such pre-school aplomb.  Speaking now in full sentences, he is quick to articulate his desires which are often relative to Eowyn since she is his second self.  And I fear the day when he no longer demands that I rock him to sleep; regrettably -or not so -parenting this little boy is blessedly hazardous for my heart.
We thank God in all remembrances of him.