A strawberry blonde, cute, smiling, bundle of joy appeared on a mid-November day to Grace and Liam. This would be the last precious little one added to our "family".
And it was a boy. Which, as I told you earlier, was fine with me. Especially since he was adorable. I cuddled him as often as someone would let me, or as often as I sat long enough.
He grew up quietly adventurous, unflinchingly calm, considerate, stubbornly independent, and unassuming. This boy smiled at you while he climbed to death-defying heights. He grinned at you while he hiked over mountains and made stuff out of bark with his bare hands.
He experiences life. Takes risks. Basks in the sun. Revels in the deep sea. The outdoors is his haven.
He is younger than me, and you might wonder how someone in his early thirties could be described as such. He has done more than most people twice his age. If you doubt, let me refer you to the night of the talent show at my high school. The year is 1994. He is 10, almost 11.
The talent show, in which Georgie played and Maria sang, is over. We are sharing conversation in the auditorium with Grace and Liam. I look to my right, and this risk-taking ten-year-old is scaling the wall. And he is already half-way up.
As Grace hurries over to get him down, none of us are surprised. Surprised at how far up he got, yes. Surprised he tried, no.
Therefore, his name shall be Andrew. English for courageous.