Eight years ago, my son T.J. was born. Outside of the hospital. In our Blazer. Front seat. From the start, he was in a rush to get here. Conceived when our oldest was only 9 months, T.J. wasn't waiting around. Then, on his birthday, he came after only two and a half hours of labor. As a toddler, he was in a rush to do everything himself. He was often angry with me. Even now, he makes his own way, and I admire him for it already. He writes comic books, draws pictures, pens his Diary of a Wimpy T.J., makes up stories to act out in the yard with his brothers and still has time to make his little sister happy with a tea party. Don't be in a rush to grow up, dear T.J. You are so very special just the way you are.
