blue sky

happy birthday, little man.

one day, not too long ago, you and i were driving in a car somewhere, windows open, music blaring. i miss days like that; we used to have our tuesdays, where you and i would try to cram a little fun into the one day we shared alone. now, of course, you’re a big first grader — almost a second grader — and so our times alone are a little harder to come by.

and when they do, often we find ourselves in car, bound for who-knows-where. sometimes a fun destination, sometimes an appointment. but we sing and we talk and we’re quiet and we’re together, you and me, my baby boy. i treasure your sister for many things; i treasure you for many others. sometimes, it’s hard to say what’s different about you and your sister. you are both my children, but two more different people there could not be. and i’m grateful for that, as it makes me appreciate the different gifts that you both are.  i’ve never been able to articulate those differences and those appreciations well, but i know them, i feel them, i breathe them in every day.

so we were driving, you and me, and the allman brothers started to sing in their meandering, drawl-ly southern way. and little you piped up:

mama, i’m your blue sky. BC’s your sunny day.

and in one second, you put to words something i never could. your sister is a sunny day, filled with light and love, hopeful that each hour will get even better than the last. clouds be damned.

and you are my blue sky… sometimes, a midnight, turbulent sapphire, with storm clouds rolling in ominously. sometimes, a hazy azure, signaling a leisurely languid loll. and then again, i know i will also then see the bright cerulean of your smiling sweetness around the bend, too.

mama loves you, jools. no matter what sort of day, you will always be my blue sky.

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