Today is Robespierre's 12th birthday.
My boy is 12.
His hands and feet are bigger than mine. He's almost as tall as I am, and he weighs more than I weighed when I graduated from college (but not more than I weigh now). He can pick me up. He's taller than his 13-year-old cousin. In the fall I bought him extra-roomy shirts; they don't fit him any more. He outgrew an armload of new boxers so quickly that he never even wore some of them. He eats constantly. He snarks at me but still calls me "Mamma." In a crowded room he'll look me in the eye and purse his lips just so slightly in a kiss that's undetectable to anyone but me.
I love him more than I can express, but you get the idea.
Happy Birthday, Robey!
PS: Happy birthday also to Mr. T, Cher, Joe Cocker, Ving Rhames, Al Franken, Ronald Isley. If you're lucky, there's someone out there who adores you nearly as much as I adore Robespierre.
