To my ELEVEN-year-old:
I cannot believe you're eleven years old. It seems like just ten minutes ago that you were trying your level best to make sure that I never slept for more than ten minutes at a time. Ever. That's not really an exaggeration. When you were a baby, I drove and drove and drove around town because the only time you ever slept was in a moving vehicle. I even took a nap in the Kroger parking lot once. You logged a lot of frequent flier miles sleeping in your swing next to the couch so I could catch a few Zs.
I spent the first three years of your life wandering around in a sleepy fog. I enrolled you in Mother's Day Out when you were two, just so I could get a nap. You'd wake up at 5:00 every morning, raring to go. Then I'd put you in the car to drive to MDO (which started at 9:00) and you'd fall asleep in the car on the way there. I'd turn around and drive back home, figuring that you'd have a really bad day if I woke you up to go to school, only to have you wake up on the transfer from the car seat to the house. You'd be ready to party and I'd be yawning my head off. Then I'd turn around and drive back to school to drop your butt off.
I finally got to the point where you'd fall asleep in the car and I'd pull into the garage, leave you asleep in the car, and leave the door to the house open so I'd hear you when you woke up. Which you always did--way too soon.
Now that you're eleven, you still avoid sleep whenever possible. You hit the ground running first thing in the morning and keep going until you fall down late into the evening. Daddy and I call you the Energizer Bunny. It's often exhausting to spend time with you, but we're insanely jealous of your energy level.
You're one of the smartest, sweetest, funniest, most talented and kind-hearted kids I know and I'm so proud to call you my son.
Happy Birthday, Eleven.