Today is the eighth of your birthdays we’ve had together, and I feel like I love you even more as the years pass.
I couldn’t have asked for a better husband, father to our boys, or best friend. If someone had plunked a catalog in front of me and told me to pick, I couldn’t have done it. There is no one like you, and I’m grateful for every single day we spend together. [Yes, even when you miss the hamper by, oh, six feet or so. Is it really that difficult to put your dirty laundry where it belongs?]
Today, you are officially 13 years old than me . . . for another two months. In your opinion, that makes you right about everything. This year, you can be right. Until January, then you’re not so much right any more.
Happy Birthday, baby. Here’s to many more.