At three, he's seldom still. He loves to move. He runs, skips, hops up and down and walks in a zig zag simply because it's fun. He dances, spins and twirls, arches backward over a chair and squeezes through a tight space to see whether he'll fit.
At three, his eyes are huge and brown and they sparkle often, with glee or delight, sometimes with mischief, sometimes with pride.
Sometimes I have to hold his head still long enough to look into those eyes before he's off again.
At three, his face is almost always smeared with food. His arms and hands are almost always smudged with paint, pen or chalk. His feet are almost always bare because socks prevent him from running fast.
At three, his smile is wide and cheeky. His cheeky cheeks and lips give away secrets and dissolve moments of anger or frustration.
At three, he is still, just, but almost not anymore, my baby.
Happy Birthday to my sweet little boy!