Today you are nine freaking years old. Just for the record, nobody said you could be nine. And nobody said you could grow up so fast.
You are obsessed with anything ‘Army’ (which we are all hoping you’ll grow out of – very promptly), anything rated ‘MA’ (even if we just put a ‘MA’ sticker on a ‘PG’ rated movie), your favourite word is ‘fedouchiary’ – which you adapted (from ‘fiduciary’) in collaboration with your little brother Samuel and cousin Jay.
\ fe-DOOSH-ee-ary \ , noun;
1. A person who is believed to be very silly.
synonyms: idiot, doof, baffoon…
As has been the case since the day you were born, you still insist on taking all of your clothes off at almost any given opportunity; regardless of the location, i.e. the glass-walled inner city building that I work in. You’ll try any kind of food at least once, you eat tuna like a cat, and absolutely still squawk like a banshee.
You’re a terrible liar. But you still give it your best shot. Daily. Seriously kid, you tell the biggest porkies. Your area for growth is in the department of cover-up.
You are really super gentle and loving with babies, especially your little cousin Sydnee. I am also delighted that you are still totally into snuggling on the couch, and giving really good hugs, as well as the odd smooch on the cheek.
You often come into my room and give me toys, scrunched up bits of paper, paper clip sculptures, and the like. You are really thoughtful, and quite emotionally clever. You know how to get under people’s skin, and equally well, you know how to make people feel good about themselves.
I think that when you grow up, you’re destined to be ridiculously good-looking, and either a concert photographer, or just a rockstar in general.
Regardless, I hope you grow up knowing just how much your family adores you.