Oh, Mr. Sullivan. Our little bobcat. The bulldozer. The bubster. Tonight is the last night of your infancy. Your babyhood was such a flash. It is like all 25 of your pounds has been sitting right on the accelerator pedal of life, driving us faster and more furiously through these 365 days than any ones in my memory. And tomorrow you will wake up with your first year behind you. Not so old at all, but the way you are gunning through life, I know that we aren't slowing down.
You are such a lively kid. We wanted you for months before you came around and you haven't disappointed us. You are the keystone of our family and it seems strange that we were ever 3. You slipped in last fall and have made yourself indispensable. Whether or not you are the last baby, you have completed this family in a way I didn't even imagine was possible. What Violet started, you have taken and run away with. From the sweet half smile that your have been flashing since you were a newborn to the new words you are forming (Mamamamama and buh-bye), you have told us in no uncertain terms that you are here to love life and we might as well come along with you. So we will. Following along beside you, high fiving and watching your fluffy, sea anemone hair toddle through the next year. Love you, little guy.