Happy birthday to my first-born (human) son, my funny, smart, beautiful and tall Viking child (whose feet now dangle practically down to my own when I pick him up in the spine-risking "Mommy Crusher" hug). I never dreamed when they were slicing open 3 layers of my abdominal muscle to yank you out, that you would be such a joy to me and the world, that already by 2012 you would be reading to me from novels off the Kindle Cloud to soothe me in my "practice old age." That you would roll your eyes in judgment at my lack of tech savvy before you even graduated kindergarten. That parenting would render my graduate degree so incredibly useless.
Toe, seven is a special birthday. Not just because my heathen first-grade public school reader told me in a quasi-Wiccan story back in 1976 that it was, and not just because my mom (your Grandma BoBo) was born on 7/7 and always said 7 was her lucky number (not sure how that actually panned out for her though, since she was hit and dragged down a gravel road by a car on her 7th birthday and sustained an injury to her left eye which left it legally blind forever), and not just because when I was 7 I got a kitten for my birthday and a puppy for Christmas (best year ever!), but because you have become a whole real little person with thoughts, opinions, ideas, dreams and special qualities that I adore. And many believe 7 is the age of spiritual accountability, so if you don"t behave yourself you could end up in hell. Just kidding (kind of).
Little T-bone (of course my child has a street name), the fleeting pleasure of your turquoise and purple Sonic the Hedgehog cake is forthcoming (as per your request), but my love is forever and ever.
For you, my boy, are a jolly good fellow.