A year ago today the doctor handed you to mama and the air in the room changed permanently. Everyone who was there noticed it; nobody could explain it. We've been figuring out what to do with that air ever since.
You like watermelon. You hate having your hair washed. You cry when papa leaves the room and laugh when he comes back; this is the best deal anyone has ever offered me.
We made you a small cake even though you can't really have it yet. You looked at it for a while and then patted it. The frosting got onto your nose and you became, for about six seconds, the most photographed baby in the city.
Happy birthday, our little one. One down, many to go.