I awoke this morning to the muffled sounds made by my two early-risers down in our kitchen. My husband quietly sang "Happy Birthday" to our oldest son. Today is my son's fifth birthday. A string of memories played out in my mind.
I remember my own fifth birthday like I remember no other birthday. I awoke the morning of my fifth birthday in our green apartment where we lived until I was ten years old. I threw off my bed spread and slid down the side of the mattress and box spring until my feet hit the cool, wheat colored hardwood floor. I excitedly bypassed the enormous refrigerator box at the end of my bed that housed what could only be described as a "ball pit" of stuffed animals. Normally, I would wake each morning and spring from my bed into my heap of stuffed animals. That day I did not; I was simply too excited to delay.