Fourteen. I promised you I wouldn't work today, so before you wake up I just need to say something.
You bring me joy. And fear. And laughter. And the smelliest laundry ever.
You caught me off guard, and taught me how to love. And how to be a parent.
I feel your pain, and your happiness, and I'm sorry it took me a month to figure out that the penis goes "down" in the diaper.
I'm sorry I get road rage. And burn your food. And make you go to bed before it's truly dark out.
And your lovely nanny Linda just called from Australia. I'm sorry for that time she almost hit the school bus head on, driving on the wrong side of the road. And the time she lit your beach towel on fire. But she taught you how to play cricket, and how to pop a cork, and the lyrics to "Shitty, Bugger, Bum".
I'm also sorry I took you backpacking to Italy instead of Disneyland. And to Wimbledon, instead of Disneyland. Actually that's a lie, I am not sorry. Someday you'll understand that Disneyland sucks. Trust me.
Trust that I will also always, always be there for you. No one, or no thing, will ever stand in the way of your happiness. Even money, and a career with nice clothes, and the hope of ever dating again.
Oh, I hear the pitter patter of size 12 feet.
Fourteen. Oh my God, two more years and you'll be driving.
Be safe, and healthy, and happy, my beautiful birthday boy.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
