You turned thirteen today.
You cried for nearly the whole first year. (Everyone who was around back then can agree that this is not an exaggeration on my part.)
Then, you gagged on every Cheerio and sip of milk and nibble of pancake and spent the next year puking unpredictably.
But man, were you cute.
You have always been able to wrap me around your little finger. When you were a toddler, you would follow me around the house, clutching at my shirt, my pants, whatever you could grab hold of, whining and crying up at me: "Up-a! Up-a! Up-a!" You would not stop until I picked you up and carried you around on my hip, as I filled the dishwasher, made dinner, helped your brother get ready for school. Your father insisted I had to stop, that I was spoiling you, that that's why my back hurt all of the time. You only did this when I was home. (I think I secretly loved this.)