Every time one of my sons has a birthday, a few common players show up to the party.

There is always celebration,

There is always ribbon,

There is always a cake,

There is always a book,

There is always a present for the birthday brother,

And try as I may to avoid it, there is always a picture of my face doing this.

(The tired mom when she thinks nobody is looking.  Pour that girl a glass of wine.)

Happy Birthday, Tuck. 

Seven is yours to hold with both hands. Let’s do it, kiddo. 

I adore everything you. 

(And apparently I should shift my bedtime closer to yours.)

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