But Not You

Some kids creep into their parents room in the dead of night tip-toeing softly so as not to be heard.
They sneak quietly into their parents' bed to hide from their dream zombies and monsters.
But not you.
You race down the hall like a fully grown elephant.
You throw open the door like 100 Kramers, unabashedly making your presence known.
You climb up into our bed and in full voice say "Snuggle me, mama."

Some kids act out at their new baby brothers, immensely irritated by their cute little faces and attention seeking doe eyes.
They sneak in a good pinch or shove when their parents aren't looking.
But not you.
You mesmerize him like a street corner magician.
You tickle his every funny bone like a carnival side show clown, delighting in making him smile.
You get right in his face so he's positively sure of you and say "HI SWEET BABY TED!"

Some kids are blissfully unaware of the sadness of others, too immersed in their own world to care.
They keep all the best toys to themselves and stare blankly at the tears of a friend.
But not you.
You reach out like a beam of light into dark places.
Your kind spirit lifts up an entire room like a shiny elevator we all want to ride, you carry us.
You lean into other people's struggles, giving them the best of you, then asking "Are you happy now?"

Some kids run onto a field to kick a ball, throw a pitch, or run the bases.
They keep their head in the game, they focus and they listen intently.
But not you.
You run out onto the field like a jubilant mascot.
You keep us going and when we want to quit, you rush the field in a ridiculous dance.
You remind us that our family is the greatest in the league when you smile and sigh at the end of a long day and say "We're all together."

Some kids have great lives.
But not you.
You make lives great.