I am a mother.

The other night for dinner, I cooked spaghetti and served peaches out of a can warmed up with brown sugar and butter on top.  Because she did.  Bailey asked why we always have that with spaghetti.  My answer, “because that’s what my mama did.”  

On the way home from church I drove by the iris garden to make sure that my kids know what irises are.  I made them read every sign and look at every flower - I’m not sure they loved it but that’s what she would have done and someday they will make their kids do the same.  

After that, I handed Bailey a shovel and showed him how to transplant the hydrangea I had rooted.  We put a brick on another stalk for next year.   

I let Kate sit in my lap and move the fabric through the sewing machine because that’s what she would have done and when there’s thread and scraps all over the floor, I remember how I used to make Barbie dresses out of hers when I sat under her feet while she sewed.  

I drink coffee every morning because one time in college she brought her own coffee pot and left it.  I’ve been hooked every since. 

I believe in open windows, bare feet, and drinking from the hose because she said it’s good for you. 

I cook cornbread in an iron skillet and know exactly when the batter is right because of how it pours and not because of a recipe.

I remember how she used to talk about picking up all those scraps of paper on the floor when I’m digging them out of the carpet at my house.

I remember how she cried that once when I backed out of the driveway going to college and again when we loaded up our kids to head back home after a visit.  It was never long enough.   

I listen to my own voice come out of my daughter’s mouth and know that her voice comes right out of mine.  

People told me I looked like her when I was little, I didn’t see it.  The older I get, the more I realize that I have become her and I embrace it.  

Last week I said some things about my life to perfect strangers.  It took me a week to come up with the words, then I started over.  It turns out that there were really only four words that needed to be said to explain my drive to survive:

“I am a mother.”

I said about a thousand more after that but when I stripped it all down that’s really all that was left.  All that matters.  It doesn’t matter who you are or what situation you are in, you will rise up.  You will do whatever it takes.  

You will hold that baby for the first time and you will continue to hold them in your heart, in your mind, and in your lap everyday after that.  

You will use your seatbelt arm when the brakes slam on even though they are in the backseat strapped in.  

You will hot glue marshmallows onto styrofoam and glitter onto “star of the week posters.”  

You will know they are sick by the look in their eyes from 30 feet away.  

You will read their expressions, you will know their thoughts, you will anticipate their needs. 

You will talk them through smallish issues that will eventually teach them how to be friends and how to just let some stuff go.

You will watch them on stage or on a pitcher’s mound and realize that they are becoming their own people and that even though you are swallowing your own heart because you are nervous for them, they are fine.  And you had something to do with that.

You will sleep through a tornado but not a cough in the middle of the night.

You will instantly recall exactly where the eye black is that he used for Halloween and the last place you saw the right purple Barbie shoe.

You will teach them that people are different, yet sort of the same and hope they remember this and look for common ground.

You will be ok with how they sit on top of you every time you sit down and you will still try to fold them up in your lap just to make sure they still fit.

You will have conversations about real things and tell real jokes and they will get it. 

You will watch them run free, swing high, and dream big because there are no limits in life for them right now.

You will let them squirt whip cream in their mouth from the can.

You will tell them no.  It will be hard but worth it later.

You will do hard things.  Because you can.  Because you will see their faces and that’s all it will take.  

You will know that someday they will know that motherhood is not easy or glamorous, yet at the same time it is.  One day they may actually get how motherhood was your only driving force somedays and how the thought of losing that sparked something inside of you to never give up.  

But, for now you just want them to be who they are and to know they are loved.  

And they know it.

 Happy Mother's Day!

I love you because you do almost everything for me.

Her gift is giving.  She does it well.

I love you because you give the best kisses and hugs.

The Motherload.

"Things happen..."

“....when you leave the house.”  - Kelly Corrigan - Glitter and Glue

And they did.  A couple of months ago my phone rang and since it was a Nashville number, I hit answer, then speaker, and waited for the automated Vanderbilt lady to tell me what time to show up again.  But there was silence, then a real voice that said, “hello?”  Uh, well, that was Dr. Sosman asking me to speak at his cancer retreat.  Since I was already such a ding-dong for not saying hello, I said yes.  

Now there were no instructions given except that he said I didn’t have to say anything profound, which I assured would not be an issue.  I floundered over what to say, prayed for guidance, and finally sat down last Friday and wrote the words.  I am a forward thinker, forward mover, and not a looker-backer.  So this looking back business was tough.  Four and a half years of cancer drama in less than 10 minutes with the goal to make a room full of oncologists and scientists believe that their job is absolutely worth it.  Not to mention that I haven’t given a speech since I graduated from high school and before that it was probably kindergarten which my daddy paid me a quarter to do.  

It was a one foot in front of the other kind of two days.  The kind people at Vanderbilt put us up in a nice hotel - the kind with valet parking.  We pulled up in our Ford Fusion with our empty Sonic cups in the console - I got myself an Oreo blast on the way - big living, people.  I get a little confused on those spinny doors so I went the wrong way through it only once and then started to feel a bit insecure about the water I had spilled on my jeans among the suits in the lobby.  And then there was dinner.  

Nice restaurant.  First ones there.  Sign saying “terrace room, third floor.”  We saw one fella standing in the “terrace room” and I headed back to the elevator where I was then cornered by two lovely and smiling ladies who obviously knew who we were.  Big hint - every other person at dinner was either famous in the cancer world or head of something or another at Vanderbilt.  Cue the sore thumbs.  Second big hint - “So, you’re our survivor!” Uh, yeah that’s me.  There were immediate cancer questions, “When were you diagnosed?  What drug did you take? How did you end up at Vandy? and then, YOU HAVE WHAT?”  Either my story was that riveting or they just wanted us to talk so they could hear our Mississippi accents.  Stephen and I sat right next to each other but didn’t see each other for four hours.  I’m not sure what I ate, pretty sure I used the wrong fork, and the conversation spanned from Memphis barbeque to melanoma.  We walked out and headed aimlessly down the street before we could get enough wits about us to call a cab.

At dinner, I learned my target audience for the next day (most people would have already asked these questions) - about 350 oncologists, researchers, and scientists.  I was first, followed by the 4 keynote speakers who have spent their entire careers in cancer research.  These are the people who have uncovered the pathways to how these drugs work and started the clinical trials which I benefitted from.  Dr. Topalian looked at me at dinner and said, “It takes a lot of courage to sign up for something so experimental.”  I said, “When that is your only option, courage is thrown out the window.”

It was at dinner that I began to realize what was happening here.  I was basically their life’s work in human flesh - living, breathing, talking, joking, and showing pictures of my children.  This means something to them.  I am a statistic but this day, it came alive.  I found myself standing on a playing field that was in twisted sort of way, insanely level.  

Thursday morning’s breakfast was a repeat of dinner.  I talked about my kids, I explained the difference in North Mississippi and South Mississippi and had another conversation with Dr. Topalian about how I go into homes and daycares in the inner city for my job.  She asked if I was ever scared.  I said, “not really,” bit my tongue from saying that I was a lot more scared of cancer and instead said, “I just try to find common ground, we’re all people and we’ve all got something.”  She agreed with me.  Meanwhile, Stephen was sipping orange juice and discussing research with Dr. Pardoll.  

So, our original plan was that I would speak at 8:15 or so, wait until the break and then make our exit.  We had already looked at the program and I had plans to swing by H&M and grab me some queso at the SATCO.  I started kind of seeing this plan unravel at breakfast when our new friends were telling us how exciting the information they were presenting would be.  I made it through my speech without vomiting, crying, or bolting.  I looked up and this cast of characters with all the publications, credentials, and whatnot were cheering, high-fiving, and beaming from ear to ear.  When I sat down, Stephen said, “You know we can’t leave, right?”  

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Anyway, it was the next four hours that made me understand where they were and where I was in relation to that trajectory.  I watched four of the top oncologists and researchers in the country, present data on studies - most of them related to melanoma.  There were graphs and charts and words that looked like the alphabet written backwards.  The words “cancer” and “melanoma” were said more times than I’ve ever heard in my life.  (I’m so chicken that I couldn’t say either until about 2012).  And there was survival data.  Survival data from the actual study that I was a part of.  Yes, the results were on a power point slide the joke of the day was which green line was I.  Funny.  What’s even more sobering is that most of it didn’t go past 18 months or above 40 percent.  Well, no wonder, Dr. Wolchok turned around and gave me a thumb’s up, but then said, “Until that number is 100 percent, we won’t stop.” I hugged him for that later. 

Topalian et al.
I confirmed that I might be the top yellow line and my arrow is still pointing to the right - a good sign.

I never cease to be amazed where God shows up.   Smack dab in the middle of some big fancy speaking engagement at the same hospital I walked into four years ago to learn about my cancer.  Apparently, now I’m teaching them.  Over the last four and a half years, He has been priming these doctors to find a cure for this mess.  The cancer that had no options has 3 new approved drugs that can be used.  Dr. Sosman elbowed me and said, “You know this will become the standard of care.”  God has closed doors, opened doors, and strategically planned every dramatic, painful, and heart wrenching incident and decision in my life.  He has moved every chess piece into just the right position.  The statistics were on the screen in front of my face and He said, “I told you so.” 

I asked why, and He said “Wait.”

I told Him enough and He said “Not yet.”

I finally quit asking and said, “Fine. Use me.” 

And, what I know to be true with all my heart is that He’s not done.  

So, what to you do after a day like this?  I’ll be honest.  I put on my ripped up jeans and Converse and headed to the park to watch my son play ball.  I sat with God for an hour in silence and tried to make sense of it.  Then, I determined that it’s not possible.  I gathered what I have and held them tight - my people.  I went to dinner and sat on the patio while I watched my two greatest accomplishments swing and throw a tennis ball at a rather unruly Boston Terrier.  I watched my Daisy become a Brownie and my 56 pound slugger pound a baseball across a field harder than I thought was possible.  I pulled out that research article that Dr. Sosman gave me a few months ago and read through it.  It means way more to me now.

I let my husband be proud of me but he should be more proud of himself.  

Because folks, “Things happen when you leave the house.”  

Dr. Sosman

They called themselves my posse.  Dr. Fong, Dr. Wolchok, Dr. Topalian to my right, Dr. Pardoll to my left.
Look them up if you're bored.

Just because I know you’re wondering what I said, Here it is:

I thought a lot about what to say today and more about what you needed to hear from me.  Obviously, I’m a cancer survivor - stage IV melanoma is what landed me this gig.  

I’m also the wife to my biggest fan on earth - Stephen, a mother of two - a boy and a girl, and a pediatric physical therapist. I spend my days shuffling kids to dance class and baseball practice, packing lunches, teaching babies how to walk, paying bills, making meals, and sometimes the most interesting thing I read all day is about the Mayan civilization from my son’s fourth grade social studies book. 

I represent the girl next door, the mom in Target, the 30 something year old at a country music concert - or rock concert if my husband has anything to do with it.  

I am as stubborn as a cockroach in a puddle of raid, and I do not like for people to tell me what to do - so you can only imagine how well I took on the “sick” role.

I get to live this way because of what you do everyday.  And, if you are wondering - it’s totally worth it.  

I was diagnosed in 2010 with stage 4 melanoma.  I was 33 and had a 2 year old and a 5 year old.  One minute I was making all my own decisions and the next minute my choices were flying out the window like paper money.  I was told where to be and what time to be there and somebody always wanted blood or tissue samples when I got there.  

Dr. Sosman and I met in early 2011 when I walked into his clinic one Wednesday afternoon.  He was the third doctor to tell me I had cancer so I guess I decided to believe him. 

As he talked and wrote drug names on a piece of paper I tried to listen thinking I’d need to look all that up later.   There was one I remember - a clinical trial drug MDX 1106.

or Anti- PD1 - you may have heard of it.

It seemed a little new and sketchy to me since there were only a few people on it.  

I remember very little else about that day other than that scrap piece of paper and the feeling that this is where we should be. 

 I kept listening for the easy but since I never heard it, I went on with a lovely little treatment called IL2.  

26 doses later, I had more tumors than I started with, so I signed a bunch of papers and gave a lot of blood to get this tiny bag of medicine every 2 weeks that would ultimately save my life.   

I had a few detours along the way - a lot more drama than I cared for.  I like to be in control, hate being in the spotlight, and I hate disrupting other people, especially my family. I also happen to live about 3 hours away so it really was inconvenient but worth it.  

About 9 months into this process, I started having back pain and weakness which turned out to be a tumor compressing my spinal cord.  

Uh-oh.  I was in trouble and I knew it when I saw that big slug on the screen.  

This landed me an emergency surgery, a lifetime of MRIs, and resulted in a lot of people really freaking out around me. It was at that point that I decided that this was definitely bad - the kind of bad that when you google the statistics, it doesn’t turn out well - so I also decided that if I woke up from that and I could walk, there was absolutely some reason that I was here.  

That’s probably why about 6 months later, when my wacky white blood cell count turned out to be Chronic Myeloid Leukemia, I just moved on to the next thing.  

Now, next thing included a bone marrow biopsy - without sedation - which I later had a few words to share about and may or may not have ended up at the bar before I went home.  But it also included my friend, Dr. Mohan and a targeted drug that worked.  

It’s been over 2 years since that point.  My bloodwork is probably better than yours.  There are no tumors to measure and this molecular leukemia number we’ve been watching - it’s almost non-existent.  

My blood pressure only goes up when I enter the doors of Vanderbilt Ingram Cancer Center.

The lessons I’ve learned are invaluable.  

I learned to make choices. 

For example, when I found out that the imaging center down the street had a Keurig, I started going there.  I chose to make lemonade out of the pile of lemons I’ve been handed.  

I choose how I show up - I honestly believe that makes a difference so I always wear lipstick and earrings and I have a really good game face.

I learned that I’m the one with cancer and the people who are scheduling me are not.  

I am the one living in the anxiety waiting on test results and what’s convenient for them may not be for me. 

I plan my appointments around my vacation, not my vacation around my appointments.  

If my kids have something at school, I’m there.  

I’m the girl who checks the orders in the lab to make sure they are coded correctly because I’m the one getting the bill, not them.  

When the wrong cancer code is on the test, it won’t get paid for.  Apparently that’s confusing when you have more than one.

I’ve learned that people want to help. If you could have cured cancer with brownies and tupperware, I wouldn’t need all of you people, because I had plenty. 

I’ve learned that I didn’t get here alone.  I’ve got a very persistent husband, a big God, and a bunch of praying people.  If you had anything to do with me, you were prayed for.

I’ve learned about research.  I used to ignore the “more birthday” commercials from the American Cancer Society.  Now, I know that’s why I have more birthdays.   

I’ve learned that you need me to live as much as I need you to keep me alive.  

And, when you see tumors on a screen that you need to go after, I see the faces and futures of my children - and all really I want is for you to see that too.  

I am grateful for the host of friends and family that have stuck with me and for Dr. Sosman and Dr. Mohan - because I’m no cupcake.  

I’m thankful that you continue to do what you do, so that I can continue to do what I do. 

And now for my shameless plug.  You may have heard we brought a little race to Memphis.  Go join TEAM KJ for Miles for Melanoma Memphis so we can make it a big race!
Here's the link:
Miles for Melanoma Memphis TEAM KJ

Thrive

I’m officially saying goodbye to winter.  Everyone else can do what they want but I’m done.  I’m so used to being cold that I brace myself just to open the door.  Now that Downton Abbey’s season is over, I just have no use for it.  For the first time this week, I opened my front door and my core body temperature remained the same.  So, that’s it.  I’m done.  Winter’s over.  Be gone, coat.  

I got a little glimpse of the sun last week, and it felt good.  Not the actual sun, because when the snow leaves, the rain surely comes, but there was at least one ray shining down on me at Vanderbilt Ingram Cancer Center and I was warm and toasty, on the inside anyway.  As routine for my life as this process is, I still find it unnerving and uncomfortable, and downright exhausting.  I have resolved myself to the fact that I can change nothing about what is or will be there from one scan to the next but still have a hard time lying still inside the magnetic tortilla knowing that someone on the other side of the window is looking inside my brain.  One of the nurse practitioners who saw me said, “Yeah, people tend to get a little more freaked out when they have scans.”  Clearly she’s never had even one cancer or one scan one so I shot back with, “yeah, well if you’ve had scans that looked like mine have, you would too.”  (I was hungry.  She left quickly.) The scans are still unremarkable, but remarkable is the only way to describe this.  

  

As we rounded the corner on 21st Avenue, I heard the words to this song, “We know we were made for so much more than ordinary lives.  It’s time for us to more than just survive.  We were made to thrive.” (“Thrive” by Casting Crowns).  I’m sure what I derived from that is completely out of context but how true it is that we were put on this earth not just to live it, but to thrive in whatever situation comes our way.  I remember a time when all I wanted was a smidgen of ordinary in my life.  The same ordinary that people were living where you drive kids places and complain about it being too hot or too cold outside.  I now get to live that in four month increments.    

Our last month has been highlighted with ice, snow days, flu, more snow, viruses and none were simultaneous.  It has been a pattern of wake up and figure out who will work, not work, and who will or will not go to school.  We have done this type of chaos before, but it was because we were really surviving.  As exhausted as I was over this unpredictability, so was everyone else in the free world.  The laundry and wet clothes, constant cycle of feeding, cleaning up the mess and then feeding again, the fever, the children arguing, schedule rearranging, and incessant requesting was exhausting but the beauty of it is that every other mother in this town was doing very same thing. We were all sitting in the midst of dirty laundry, dirty dishes, and sick kids dreaming of being in a hotel.  This is exactly what I asked for.  This is thriving, people.  So, rather than wallow in my self pity over lack of sunshine and free time, I played in the snow, gave out a lot of tylenol, and did a lot of laundry.  Well, I might have wallowed a little but then I thought back to the snow that hit four years ago when I was anxiously awaiting genetic tumor results to determine what treatment options I had.  This year, between working and sledding, I awaited the next time somebody says, “I’m hungry.”  I’ll take it, scans and all.  

2011

2015

Yes sir, we are thriving at our house.  Every Saturday morning I drink coffee in my pajamas until my kids wake up and the noise starts.  I’ve watched them round the corner from the staircase every week since they didn’t wake us up first and every week they look taller and older.  The pajamas that fit last year are too short and the baby cheeks are chiseling away at their little grown up faces.  They still grin and walk to the same spot - right on top of me, and wrap their snaky long legs all over mine.  His sense of humor is growing almost at the same rate as his legs and her legs will never catch her imagination.  Thriving.  

A few weeks ago when their school raised money for childhood leukemia, Kate was gathering her change and giving me facts about “lukenia.”  I said to her, “You know, mommy has that too.”  Her face twisted up and her mouth gaped open, “YOU DO? YOU DO NOT HAVE LUKENIA!”  In walks older wiser brother who then starts an argument complete with elbowing and eye rolling about the fact that it’s “LU-KEE-MEE-UH” and of course she has it.  Poor thing, I guess she was just as confused about the melanoma word and that word as the rest of us but it left me giggling that they were throwing cancer terms out just as easy as “pass the butter.”  Thriving, I guess you’d say.

If the sun ever dries up the fields, we will be spending over half of our week at the baseball park. 
Even though I barely know the difference in a touchdown and a home run and never know who’s playing in the Super Bowl or what a bracket is, I will suddenly become the biggest Yankees fan this side of the Mississippi, complete with visor.  Bailey will be playing, Stephen will be coaching and I will be thriving it up in the stands.

And, Martha Kate - well, she may not be running for president of anything but rest assured she will continue to beat her own drum.  She won’t give math facts the time of day but she gets compliments on how attentive she is in dance class.  She starts lining up her social calendar the moment she wakes up, is becoming an expert at matching my jewelry to my clothes, and looks forward to warmer weather for two reasons: too short shorts and the absence of shoes.  She’s convinced that fairies are real and maybe she’s convinced me too.  She never stops thriving.  

Apparently my doctor thinks I’m thriving too as he has asked me to speak at his cancer retreat next month.  This was more of a topic of conversation at my last appointment than the scans and I think I’m actually more concerned about this than the scans.  Speaking is not writing and I’m much better on someone’s living room sofa than standing in the spotlight, but I said yes.  Because, if my mama taught me one thing it’s that when someone who helps you (or helps save your life) asks for a favor, you do it.  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to a bunch of research doctors other than thank you but maybe I’ll start with how hard I’ve worked at being ordinary.  After all, “perhaps the greatest risk any of us will ever take (is) to be seen as we really are” (the Fairy Godmother).  Either way, I hope I do it justice. 

1998

And, speaking of research, Stephen is working on a project of his own that will bring more melanoma awareness to Memphis and hopefully raise money to support melanoma research.  I could not be more proud of his efforts because a) this will give us yet another chance to give back and b) if we needed any more evidence, it’s all because he loves his wife.  More on this to come, but you might want to go dig out those pink shirts.  

So here we are, living this ordinary life and it has taken extraordinary acts of kindness, love, prayer, friendship, and patience.  I get the opportunity to watch my children learn, grow, and thrive and that makes ordinary seem priceless.  Sometimes I don’t get why people remain interested because as someone told me last week, “it feels like you’ve been doing this a long time.”  No kidding, buddy, this gets old and I plan to do this a lot longer.  But, you are still there, cheering us on and we are grateful.  I continue to be amazed at what God chooses to do with these cancers.  I look forward to spring where sunshine brings sidewalk chalk, bike riding, baseball games, tulips, and Reese's peanut butter eggs.  

"Spring is Alsome"

“Joy unthinkable, faith unsinkable, love unstoppable, anything is possible.”  - Thrive.

Love, 

KJ

thriving snow people

thriving to hold up a rock

thriving smarty pants

thriving musicians 

the thriving pooches

  

Ten

Dear Bailey, 

You are ten today!  Ten years old!  In honor of your tenth birthday I decided to list 10 of my favorite things about you.  Today is all about you, but you have to know that you being ten is really big for me too.  It is a whole decade and a whole decade ago you started teaching me how to be a mother.  It’s the best job I’ll ever have.  And, because you wanted to make sure I was ready for your sister, you did an extra good job of it.  You made sure that my job wouldn’t be a piece of cake and that if I wanted to be one step ahead of you, I needed to always be on top of my game.  For that, I am grateful.  Sometimes I am tired, but I am always grateful.  I have learned to be patient, learned to have empathy, and learned that even though I don’t like to discipline you, it is what you need sometimes.  You, my friend, are one good boy.  You are one great kid and I am beyond lucky to be your mother.  So here goes:

1. You are honest.  Yep.  You tell on yourself before I would even have a chance to know.  People always know where they stand with you and you can see right through a faker almost as fast as I can.  You have been sizing people up since you could sit up in a grocery cart and your instincts are usually right.
2. You are thoughtful.  You always remember to remember.  If I forget a date or a birthday or what someone, likes, you know.  You remind me to do things for friends and for family and you remind me of the little things I said I would do.  You remember to get your sister gum if I buy you some and you hold me accountable to making everything fair.  Your memory is better than anyone I know - I love when you tell me things that you remember when you were little because it reminds me to pay more attention and that you are always paying attention.
3. You are funny.  I love your sense of humor.  You are especially good at impressions and can repeat movie lines and scenes word for word.  You use one-liners so well that it makes me proud to be your mom.  It’s even funnier when you get so tickled at your own jokes that you have a hard time telling them. 
4. You get the details.  While most people are diving in head first, you dip one toe in at a time and take it all in.  This quality in you has made me learn to slow down in life and look at the things that I might not have seen, like the eyes of a frog, the stripes on a lizard, and the emblems on every car that passes.  It has always been hard to impress you especially with big things or big events.  I can tell you are excited when you are completely silent, soaking it all in and later when it’s all over, you have more to tell than anyone else.
5. You are persistent.  You absolutely refuse to give up on whatever it is no matter how long it takes or how frustrated you become.  This worked well for your daddy when I gave him a hard time once and it will hopefully work well for you too.  It will also make victory that much sweeter.
6. You are responsible.  I can count on you to get it done, especially if it’s something important or something to remember.  You always make sure your sister is safe and watch out for her probably a little more than she would like, but that’s okay with me.  We all know she needs an extra set of eyes on her sometimes.
7. You are creative.  I am amazed at the things you can think, build, draw, and create.  You have great ideas and it’s fun to watch those little wheels in your brain turn when you are thinking.
8. You know stuff and you teach me stuff.  In the last 10 years, I’ve learned more about trains, bugs, reptiles, dinosaurs, Star Wars, rescue dogs, foreign cars, and other subjects than I ever dreamed.  I love learning about them because you do.  You also know how to work my phone better than I do and I even had to get you out of class one day to fix something on it.  You also teach me perseverance, patience, empathy, and compassion.
9. You are loving.  You are not too old or cool to hug your mama, well maybe in public, but otherwise I can get all the hugs I want.
10. You are good.  You are a just a good boy with a good soul.  You don’t pretend to be something you are not, and you let me know when I don’t get it right but you love me anyway.  And, I love you back.  

You are 10, and you are awesome! 

Happy Birthday, Bailey! 

        

Oscar

Age 10

First 5K

Age 3