It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
It doesn’t hurt to think of you most of the time. And I do think of you most of the time. You’re always there, in the same way your brother and sister are. Even when my babies aren’t in my arms, or throwing elbows into my soft bits, or putting sticky fingers in my hair, or leaning into my sturdiness, or cradling their faces into the crook of my neck; they’re right there with me in my every breath. It’s like that with you, McCoy. Since the moment you were born – three years ago today – I’ve been tethered to you. You’re so very here in the big things. You’re here in the Easter baskets, the birthday pancakes, the stockings at Christmas. The weddings, the reunions, the lingering hugs with friends in pain, the begging prayers to God. There’s a card “from” you for every occasion. But you’re also here in the little things, like when people ask how many kids we have. Or that feeling I get watching the rising sun color outside the lines of the ocean’s edge. You’re another face peering over the freezer drawer, in search of popsicles. You’re among the pitter patter of human and furry feet that rush the front door when there’s a knock. You’re in Charlie’s overflowing and almost preteen-like confidence. You’re in Caden’s heart for baseball, his body for football. You’re in Quinn’s scrunchy-nosed, squinty-eyed smile. You’re in Duke’s baby blues and in the way he peers up at his mama. You’re there in the way Tucker Beau follows his daddy around, a shrunken copy just inside the wake of the original. You’re in Rhett’s gleeful, puppy-like body rolls in the grass. You’re in the absolutely divine gift of Palmer Grey. You’re in the 3-kid circus of the Wells house. You’re in the old friendships that were given new life after your death – like with the Patels and Herzlichs. You’re in the way your uncles make me laugh. You’re in your daddy’s skin, his playfulness. You’re in your sister’s love for your brother. You’re in Vaughn’s strut and his obsession with Chapstick. You’re the chorus of laughter we hear from the park. You’re in all good things. You’re in all our happy moments, and the hard ones, too. You are everywhere to me. And you always will be. Happy Big 3, honey pot.
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A Happy “Two”dles to our favorite Mickey-loving boy.
A Happy “Two”dles to our favorite Mickey-loving boy.
A Happy “Two”dles to our favorite Mickey-loving boy.
A Happy “Two”dles to our favorite Mickey-loving boy.
A Happy “Two”dles to our favorite Mickey-loving boy.
A Happy “Two”dles to our favorite Mickey-loving boy.
Spring is here 💐
Spring is here 💐
Spring is here 💐
Spring is here 💐
Spring is here 💐
Snuggling these two at the same time. Lucky me! #OrangeIsTheNewBlack
