Hey, son.

Happy third birthday, my love.

I imagine you'll be growing clean out of your favorite cowboy-boots soon. That will be a sad day.

Perhaps you will tire of denim, your favorite comfort item, and I'll not longer need to get you "pants" before bedtime.

You might even stop sucking your cute, little thumb. Won't that be bitter-sweet.

You're getting taller. And stronger. And faster.

Oh, my baby. Just say you'll keep telling me, "mom, you're my best girl." At least for another year more.

Darling, please don't stop dancing and finishing in those fantastic poses. Please.

We'll be on to new adventures, marvelous ones I am sure, but don't grow too quickly, my boy.

Your father and I love you very much.

Always. Forever.