“It’s not everyday yer young man turns 11!”
My boy. My baby. My little man. My cuddle bug. My sarcastic, sardonic funny kiddo. You are eleven years old now. Old enough for your letter from Hogwarts, old enough to qualify as a preteen, but not too old to still curl up on my lap and give bear hugs.
You are quiet, and loud. Calm, and frenetic. You are too many things to put into words. I love breathing in your hair, and kissing your forehead. I love how sweet, and funny, and clever you are.
Happy birthday sweetheart. I’m proud to be your mama.