I considered being aggravated by the task of sorting through and shifting around the seemingly endless bags of D clothes that don't fit (any more / yet). I'd rather be playing legos, like everybody else at my house.

But after a brief, self-indulgent harumph, I remembered that we are the recipients of a truly astounding amount of thoughtfulness, generosity, and optimism. After all, he almost didn't get here! Then he almost didn't stick around. So instead I settled for sniffling over the little duds, folding each item with love and a wish for the Young Master Mason (the next baby branch on the tree) to wear them in good health.

The first four years were the happiest blur imaginable, and we have great hopes for many more. Who could complain about such work? Not even me.