Eight… Eight years ago today the sun started to shine brighter, laughter became deeper, and time spiraled into over drive. Eight years ago today I became a Daddy.

Life started for your mom and I on this day eight years ago. I remember everything about your long awaited arrival. You captivated us with your first cry, and cheesy head. Your mommy labored for nineteen hours with you before I walked your six pounds ten ounces out into a hallway filled with more love than any heart could ever fathom. Emotions were high, and eyes were filled. It was truly the handiwork of God.

My dear Emma Gracelee, I simply love you, and today we celebrate all that you are, and every solitary speck of joy you’ve brought into our lives. My darling, I’ve learned more from you in the past eight years, than I ever would have within the walls of a classroom. Not only have you taught me about patience, unconditional love, and how to change a diaper in  six seconds flat… You’ve given me purpose. You’ve given me hope. And gray hair

As the first born you’ve provided our family with several “firsts”.  First time Mom and Dad. First time Gammie, Dabby, Papa D., and Queenie. You brought life to the word “great- grandparent” and you gave meaning to the word “family”. Every single one of us has learned so much from you and your gentle soul. I am in awe of you, sweet girl.

You’ve taught my heart how to beat outside of my chest.

You’ve taught me that VCR’s don’t eject sandwiches.

You’ve taught me how to function on as little sleep as humanly possible.

You’ve taught me how to braid hair, paint fingernails, and accessorize even my own clothes.

You’ve taught me how to chase monsters from under beds and out the front door.

You’ve taught me how to change diapers, clean ears, and dig out boogers.

You’ve taught me how to handle even the worst diaper rashes with smiles and Adam’s Drug Butt Paste.

You’ve taught me how to soothe a fussy baby to sleep after a day of shots at the doctor.

You’ve taught me how to “kiss it and make it better, daddy”

You’ve taught me how to proudly wear a Barbie band-aid to work.

You’ve taught me that gas drops are liquid gold, just like breast milk.

You’ve taught me how to explain what heaven is, and who’s there.

You’ve even taught me how to love your Mommy and what being “rich” really means.

You’ve taught me that “pink is totes the best color, like ever, Dad.”

You’ve taught me how to change earrings, color in the lines, and make macaroni wreaths for Mother’s Day.

You’ve taught me how to go with my gut and always trust my first answer.

You’ve taught me how to tie shoes, find lost pacifiers, and to always make extra pancakes on Saturdaymornings.

You were our first real responsibility. Our first real set of eyes and ears. And the source of strength only God himself could send.

If it weren’t for you, your mother and I would have no clue how to eat candy in the closet with the lights off and we wouldn’t have extra of every size battery on hand, at all times.

We’d think the word Colic was some sort of spa treatment.

We wouldn’t know how to sleep with our eyes open or how to change a diaper while breathing through our mouths.

We never would’ve learned how to prioritize what matters most or why rainy Sunday’s are good for the soul.

We’d have no instincts, no children’s’ Tylenol of every flavor, and no sponge-bob shaped mac n cheese.

We’d have a house with no dust, no wadded up socks, and not one Cinderella dress with matching plastic shoes.

We’d be a quarter of the people we were meant to be. Empty, bored, and probably in much better shape. Plus, I’m starting to get used to my love handles.

You broke the mold and paved the way for each of your siblings. You’re a natural big sister and you make it look easy. You revel in simple pleasures and always follow the rules. Your spirit is contagious and your intentions are always pure. You have your mother’s curls and your daddy’s eyes.

Because of you, mommy and I are now pharmacists, psychologists, therapists, chefs, doctors, and even lawyers.

But what we’ve been most are students. Absorbing you, watching your innocence overshadow all the evil in the world and choosing to see the good when the bad is all that’s left.

Take your time growing up sweetheart, I’m still taking notes.

Happy Birthday, my sweet.