To my son on his eleventh birthday (2 days late)

Dear Jake:

So it finally happened. You don't want me bringing cupcakes to your class today at lunch for your birthday.

Fine. Be that way. I don't care.

Except I do. And you know why it makes me so sad? Because I never expected it from you. Eli, maybe. Noa, for sure. But we have a special relationship, one forged from your early 2 1/2 years of being an only child. Other than a couple of neighbors, I didn't have any other friends with kids then; it was all you and me, my all-day, every-day buddy.

You're the kid who at 4 invented the secret handshake that means "I love you." The one we still use. The kid who will spend hours with me at the library. The kid who inherited my sense of humor.

Like that month and a half that we mocked your father for the way he holds a knife

Yes, I know you're a big guy now, almost a teenager. I see that when you eat a turkey sandwich minutes before dinner and when I'm able to wear your winter coat to shovel snow. (1) When you roll your eyes at my inability to recall the quadratic equation on my first try or find Mali on a map. (2)

But no matter how big you think you are, you will always be my first baby. Happy Birthday. I love you.

1) Why am I still shoveling snow when I own an eleven year?
2) Joke's on you. At almost 40, I've needed neither of these facts.