Today you are eight months old.
I normally hate the word "miracle," for reasons I will explain to you when you're older, but it has become clear to me that you are one. A miracle.
You have such a center of power; you have all these incredible abilities that astonish me every day.
You can make the most negative person smile.
You can win over anyone, even those big, burly, macho types.
You smile, and the injustices of the world melt away.
You make people happy - just by being yourself: open to the world, curious, excited.
You inspire greatness in those who normally strive for mediocrity.
You make those who are old and sick feel alive again.
I suppose an argument could be made that these things are easy for an adorable baby to do. After all, a baby is pretty much a universal symbol for hope and new beginnings. But no, I think it's you. You, my hair-pulling, nose-sucking little man. You, my roly-poly, sleep-fighting monster. You, the absolute love of my life.