Six

Alaska boy, I can’t believe you’re six.

Your first day on Earth, I was terrified. I was in charge of something ALIVE that couldn’t take care of itself at all.

You got bigger, a little at a time.

And one day, all of a sudden, you were a little person – not a lump.

And from the start, you danced.

And danced

And danced

and danced some more

You’ve ridden dogsleds

made it through a car wreck with a tractor trailer without a scratch – and without even dropping your cookie

lived by the beach

picked pumpkins

got stitches, and a “Han Solo” scar

slept on TOP of your dresser

lived with your parents’ terrible influence

wobbled through your first ski lesson

met a mermaid

and blown out candles SIX TIMES

I don’t know what’s next – maybe you’ll fly a plane, or build a rocket, or simply watch all the episodes in existence of Phineas and Ferb, but know that we’ll be here to cheer you on.

You big doofus.