While I like to think of myself as someone who has words for every occasion, when it comes to describing you — and all that I adore about you — I’m not sure where to begin. (Though I do know it’s with a giggle. Or, at the very least, a fake laugh with my head thrown back, eyes closed, and mouth wide, but silent. After all, you’ve taught me well.)
For seven years, you’ve found creative ways to prove that there’s never a dull moment when you’re around. You’re a walking contradiction, it seems. Soft and sensitive, yet rough and tumble. Quiet and contemplative, yet loud and impulsive. Clever and cunning, yet humble and honest.
While I tend to see things in black and white, you’ve shown me the world is so much more alive when you throw in a splash of neon yellow and orange and green and blue. And because we’re so different, I can’t help but think you’ve taught me as much about the world as I’ve taught you.
You rarely shy away from risk, but gravitate toward it — head on, with a grin. While there’s no question that makes me nervous — like, oh-dear-god-look-away nervous — it also makes me proud. Rather than categorize people as friendly or unfriendly, you categorize everyone as a friend. And people gladly return the favor. Somehow you seem to know exactly where the line is that separates things should be taken seriously and things that shouldn’t be taken too seriously. I mean how many kids can use a joke to call out their mom for overreacting and be spot on?
You’ve never met a ball you couldn’t conquer, a school subject you didn’t love, a canvas you couldn’t bring to life, or a day you couldn’t brighten. You are a light. You are a comfort. You are a character. You are a joy. And, today, you are seven.
Happy birthday, Little. I love you so.