19 years ago, I was eating surf and turf.
From a plastic cafeteria tray. It was the hospital's sweet way of reminding me, "Hey, you're here. Kinda sore from just having that baby, but maybe a little filet mignon will perk you up?"
You were born on New Year's Eve, and while your dad high-fived the Doctor for delivering a tax deduction just under the wire, I was too busy trying to figure out how I had managed to deliver an 8 pound 10 oz. baby.
Today is your birthday, my son. Happy birthday. I know that no matter how many times I say it, it won't be possible for you to know how magical and wonderful you are.
I have stories, stories that I could tell forever, about how much I love you.
Happy birthday, my friend, my smart kid, my talented artist, my walking buddy, my kind and even-tempered child.
I know it's no use telling you how much I'll miss you when you leave this September for Madison, but I can't help it.
I will miss you.
I love you.
I am so excited for you.
Do all parents feel they just didn't get enough time? I'm betting they do. If you notice me more misty-eyed than I usually am on this day, it's because I'm thinking how it's your last birthday at home. So, don't mind me. Much.
I wish you a happy birthday today, my beautiful son! As you open your cards and gifts, know that we chose them with love for you. You mean the world to me, your dad, and your brothers, Xavier.
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