Last year today, Brave Ransom Rupp was born in Thailand. The room was large and hot with pink walls, pink trim, and pink leather furniture. Brave's little blue hat, courtesy of my mom's knitting needles, was the only thing in the room that wasn't pink, I'm pretty sure. Bright and Zion were running around the room with their matchbox cars, Daniel was up to his sunglasses with paperwork, many nurses were asking me, in broken English, "You pee pee? You poo poo?", and I was forcing myself to eat the jiggly Thai food on my tray, amidst waves of nausea from an epidural that didn't set in until after the birth. And in the middle of the room, one beautiful baby was sleeping like an angel. One beautiful baby named Brave.
The weeks that followed were sweet weeks, memories that only the five of us share. None of our family was there with us to experience the night market, the elephants, the tea carts, the supermalls, the tuk tuks, the falafel place, the Juniper Tree, the waterfalls, the mountains, and the seafood chowder at The Dukes. We were a family, and we had each other, and we were happy and sweaty and rested and away from everything else and everywhere else that we had ever been or would ever be. What a wonderful place for our memories of Brave's birth to reside.
And now we celebrate you, Brave Ransom (The Berv), and all the wild wonderfulness you bring into our lives. This has been a delightful year, after I got over the initial shock of having three kids underfoot all day every day, a shock that was more like a shock wave. You made it easy, really. You make everything easy. You are just a plain joy, that's all. No complaints about you, little one. You are a fighter, we can see that, but with the right training you are going to be one heck of a man.