Today, eight years ago, I was laying in a hospital completely exhaused with a little 8 lb 10oz baby boy who didn't have a name. The tag on his wrist just said "Baby James". It was the weekend before Mardi Gras and I was twenty.

Today he has a name, and he prefers chinese food for his birthday lunch. He was given books (the first the Percy Jackons and Diary of a Wimpy Kid 2), a Harry Potter chess set, and biking safty gear as gifts. He's going through issues because me and his father no longer live together and he's having trouble expressing them. He has the loudest laugh in the room. He still snuggles with me in the morning and kisses my check when he's not worried who may see him being a momma's boy.

Eight years is a long time.