For ourMama,Kelly.
With all our love,
Your husband, Hazel, Otis, & Arlow
Your husband, Hazel, Otis, & Arlow
Happy
Mother's
Day
Mother's
Day
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Every birthday, every Valentine's, this little site gets dressed up again. Silly buttons. Inside jokes. Cheesy declarations of love. You know the drill.
This year is different. This year there are three of us building it for you — your husband, Otis, and Hazel, with Arlow holding the door.
So scroll slowly. There's no rush today.
I am two. I have been thinking about a lot of things.
Like how every morning, I help feed Arlow. I scoop. I pour. He waits. It is a system. I am basically running this household.
I do not have answers. But I have you. And you explain everything to me, even when I'm not listening, which is most of the time.
You are the smartest person I know. You teach me colors and shapes and numbers. I can count to ten now, in case you hadn't heard. (You had. You taught me.) You would be a really good teacher if you weren't already my favorite one.
Thank you for being patient when I am extremely not.
— Otis BoatisI cannot really do words yet. But I have a LOT to say. Most of it is "!!!!" and "!!!!" and a little bit of "???" and then a giggle that comes out of my whole body, and my happy legs go absolutely feral. You haven't lived until you've seen the happy legs.
Otis is my favorite show. He runs in a circle, I scream-laugh. He throws a block, I scream-laugh. He simply exists, and I scream-laugh. You made him for me. I cannot thank you enough.
You're my favorite person though. You smell right. You sing right. Everything you do is the right thing. I'm new here, but I already know this.
Sorry about the 4 a.m. hour. I'm working on it. (I'm not.)
— Hazel BaselAnd he made her, in a way. So did you.
I have been doing some thinking on the kitchen mat. I have noticed that the household has gotten louder. Smaller, in some places. Stickier, in many places. There are now two short humans who pull my beard and one of them keeps trying to eat my paw.
And yet. You still feed me. You still keep me safe from the toddler. You still say my name in the voice. You know the one.
I am not your first dog. But I was Dad's first. And you took me in like I'd always been yours. I have not forgotten. I do not think you have either.
Happy day-of-the-mama. I ate some of the playdough this week. I'm not sorry. Consider it my gift.
— Arlow 🐾In no particular order, though some are very particular.
The one Mr. Styles. Adore you. Sign of the times. We hear it in the kitchen, we hear it in the car, we will hear it on the moon.
And every other podcast that makes the dishes go faster.
Outside is where she resets. Bonus points for sun on the face.
Colors. Letters. Bugs. Why the moon follows the car. She would homeschool him beautifully if we asked. She is, basically, already doing it.
An aria over breakfast. Classical on a Tuesday. Range, your mama has it.
Above all of it. Above everything. The whole reason this site exists.
The crafts. The walks. The little projects. The “let's try this.” She is the engine of this family, and we know it.
I get to watch you do the hardest, kindest, most relentless work in the world. And you make it look like a normal Tuesday.
You woke up at 4. You taught a two-year-old how to count to ten while bouncing a four-month-old on your hip. You listened to Abby Chatfield in your one earbud. You played Harry Styles at a reasonable volume. You took everyone outside. You came up with a craft I would never have thought of in a thousand years.
You are so good at this. So good. And you somehow do it while still being the most gorgeous, most curious, most stubborn person I know.
I built you a website again, because I am not particularly good at flowers (see below), but I am pretty good at this.
— MattP.S. Keep scrolling. The flowers happen anyway.
Because a website is sweet, but a website cannot be put in a vase. We've thought of that.
Because every year, always. A tradition we keep.
For the floors that are always cold and the babies that are always being held.
We love you so completely, Kelly.
