When your son is struggling with being a quarter of a century old, it somehow makes a mom have to face her own inevitable and true age. I actually still embrace every birthday, so I hope he can come to terms with actually being a little more than HALF his mother’s age. Poor guy…Even if my son is 25 years old, I am going to reserve my right to feel 35 years old.
Adventurer, brilliant, darling, Godly, hysterically funny, fun, compassionate, sensible, thoughtful only begin to describe this 25 year old man son of mine. Sounding like a mama, but you’d say the same thing if you knew him.
He’s the one that remembers the birthdays, and sends the flowers, and celebrates traditions like a GQ model for Martha Stewart. Probably the only guy you’ll ever meet that comes with his own dowry (a Christmas Dickens snow village complete with train and ski lift), he’s collected these treasures since he was a young guy, and decorated the house from top to bottom most every year that he has been home. He even helps me make the gingerbread house! He’s a Renaissance kind of guy with a genuine soft side like his dad, but a practical, no-nonsense side that makes you see the rock of strength he is.
His true passions are the sky and the wonder and thrill of piloting a Cessna 172 Skyhawk through the wild blue yonder, and his best friend, a black Labrador Retriever. He’s a man’s man, and he’s my Buddy, my birthday boy.
You’re my joy and my delight. Blessings abundant for another year of good health, much joy, and more love than you’ll ever know (or until you hold your first born some day.) Happy Birthday, Son.