You poor little man, you were in the midst of a nasty fight with a headcold as we ushered in your second year of life. In fact, I stuck candles in your Mickey Mouse pancake in the morning, because I wasn't sure how late you would stay up. Good thing we did, because you were asleep by 1700.
Truly, though, you handled the sickness like you handle life: with good humor and amazing resilience. But I don't just want to say the typical things one would mention about a third child - of course you are a master of sharing and good spirits despite being sat on, or snatched from or shoved, but you are your own man. While you are interested in
learning from your big brother to some extent, I often find you on your own, putting together little scenarios and talking about the metal taxi cab you put in the attic of Vivian's dollhouse.
Your biggest crime is how much you love your mom. You are the most attached one of the three. But, despite the fact that I should, empirically, be sick of you (you won't go to anyone when I am visible and only a select few if I am out of view) I just can't get enough of you. Perhaps it is your smaller version of your father's amazing good looks. Perhaps it is the way you know what you want and point at it matter-of-factly until someone responds. Perhaps it is the way you have always loved the outdoors, whether it is alongside a sandbox in the 70 degree weather of Southern California, or braving a sledding hill in 27 degree weather in Germany, you relish it all. You sleep and eat well. You are the fastest crawler we have ever seen and your brother and sister are already begging us to move you into their room. I think your father said it best one morning as he looked at you in your high chair on his way out the door, "Isn't it amazing how you can't imagine having them and then all of the sudden you cannot imagine life without them." Life without you, little Clark Bar, would be incomplete.
