Today my boy, my Henry Jacob, turns eight. Eight! He ties his own shoes and solves complex math problems and can recite entire passages of "Diary of a Wimpy Kid." I...yeah. Words fail me.

But I can't sit around today singing "Sunrise, Sunset" and sniffling into Minty Bear (technically, Minty Bear II). I've got a cake to bake, an apartment to clean (my family's coming over, and you know my mom's going to notice the tumbleweed of cat hair floating across the kitchen) and, most importantly (for Henry) a staggeringly large Lego box to wrap. (This last part will probably take me an hour and cause me to somehow waste an entire roll of wrapping paper, because even though I'm technically an adult, I seem to be missing the adult life-skills I thought I'd have perfected by now, like "wrapping" and "folding laundry.")

(On the other hand, I finally figured out how to snap my fingers! Life list!)

Anyhoo, why don't you take a moment to read Henry's birth story? I mean, if not today, when? It has Dan Rather, and mooing. I couldn't have created a better story out of my imagination. Which is true of quite a lot of things in my life, not least of which is my son.

Happy birthday, Henry. I love you so much it's stupid.