Our last first birthday.
I knew this day would come. That someday I’d plate our last smash cake, light our last single candle, and sing that song one last time to a baby of ours turning one. And here we are.
George James turned one just before Thanksgiving, on a day when the sky was soft and gray and the house smelled like cinnamon and leftover birthday cake. We kept things simple and sweet—classic blues and warm browns, a little plaid here and there, and stuffed bears wearing party hats perched at the table like tiny guests of honor. Ivy fell in love with them and tried to adopt each one, sleeping with them every night the week leading up to the party.
Conrad bounced through the day, wild with excitement in the way only he can be—half tornado, half golden retriever. And Quinn, with her deep, steady love for her baby brother, stayed close by his side. She made sure his hands were clean, helped him grab balloon strings from the ones that floated just out of reach, and beamed every time he clapped for himself.
George toddled around trying to keep up with his siblings, giggling and chattering in his own little language. I kept catching myself just staring at him. Taking it all in. The subtle baby mullet, the dimpled hands, the frosting on his fingers. The way he squeals when he laughs. The little gap between his front teeth. It’s all just perfectly him right now, and I don’t want to forget a single thing.
There’s something beautifully quiet about a fourth baby turning one. Fewer Pinterest boards, more time on the floor. You notice what really matters. You soak it up deeper because you know how fast it goes.
A year ago, we were saying “We’re so glad you’re here.” And now, we can’t imagine life without him.
Happy birthday, Georgie. You are pure joy and you are so loved.
