The little girl who saved my life is three years old today. The official celebration of her third birthday shall await the return of normalcy - or a reasonable facsimile thereof - so that she can be lovingly smothered by all her grandparents and great-grandparents. Inasmuch as I have celebrated her birth every day since Day One three years ago, today shall be no exception.
It is not false modesty or faux self-effacement that causes me to describe myself as, at best, a mediocre human being. I am self-interested to a fault, pursuing that which interests and benefits me with little regard to the impact of that pursuit on others. It is not an accident that among my favorite things to do are running, reading, and writing. Each is a solitary pursuit. It is little surprise, as well, to learn that I prefer the company of my faithful canine running companion, Sam I am, to that of most people.
Truth be told, I fully expected to half-ass being a grandfather much in the same way I have half-assed being a son, a sibling, a husband, and a father. Maggie simply would not let me. I have been smitten with her from the first moment I laid eyes on her, not very long after she was born. I will tell anyone who asks - and if you are stuck too close to me at the bar as the hour grows late even if you don't - that I was the one who correctly guessed her weight when the nurse put her on the baby scale in Suzanne's room in the wee small hours of the morning three years ago on this very day. She had me at hello.
From moment one, she has made me want to earn the title "Pop Pop" and I have made it my mission to do just that, for her and for the rest of the littles who have followed her, each and every day. Pop Pop is the greatest gig I have ever had. It is the greatest gig I shall ever have.
Happy Birthday, Maggie. Pop Pop loves you very, very much. Wish big always...
-AK
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