I don’t know when it was (late twenties? early thirties?) that I started forgetting my age. Sure, I had a guess, and I was always within a year one way or the other, but if I really wanted to be sure I’d have to do the math. My birth year is 57 seven though, and math with the 7 as that root number was always the trickiest for me. Luckily, you’re a 95, so the arithmetic is way easier. So you’re … hang on … so it’s 2018 … you were born in ’95 … carry the—GOOD GOD YOU’RE 23! How did THAT happen?
Happy Birthday to the most wonderful son in the world. May your day be wonderful, may your summer be the best yet, and may the inevitable annoying things that crop up along the way dissolve away as you step out into your twenty-third year. I’m so lucky to be your dad. Life is good!
Love,
Dad
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