I love my kids.
Today, my youngest son, my only son, turned six. He's an awesome kid, and I'm proud to be his father.
Yesterday, back when they young man was still a mere five years old, he told me that while he was excited about his birthday, he was a little sad, too. Because he was "never going to be five again."
I know the feeling, Liam. I really, really do.
But here's the good news. You're never going to be five again, but you are going to be six, and then seven, and then eight, and on and on. And while each of those ages will last just one year apiece... The best news of all is, you'll always be Liam.
And you are one awesome dude.
You make jokes. You laugh at jokes. Oh man, you laugh so hard sometimes you think you can't breathe.
Speaking of your not being able to breathe — I've always been good at segues, son — I told you a story today at breakfast. I talked about how when you were born six years ago, like, RIGHT after you were born, you were in distress. You didn't breathe right away, and a whole slew of doctors and nurses rushed in to smack you around and try to get you breathing. And I stood off to one side, feeling both helpless but dutiful:
I snapped photo after photo, because — at least that moment — you were alive, and I was going to make damn sure I had some photographic evidence of that fact. Spoiler alert: You lived, you thrived, it all worked out.
Again, I told you this story at breakfast. You thought about it for a moment, and then said:
"This is a weird conversation."
Liam my boy, you are my son. And I am so happy you are. Happy birthday.