There’s a photo of his cake, all covered in white and blue frosting, simply reading: “Happy Birthday, Henry.” There’s a photo of us sitting with his great grandparents, my grandparents, who he doesn’t get to see often enough. There’s a video of us singing happy birthday and a few blurry photos of my son eating cake in my poorly lit dining room, and there’s probably a video of me cry-reading through a poem my grandfather wrote for my son. There’s photos of my son playing with his toys and fussing about nothing and toddling around the house. There’s a photo of his Mickey Mouse and Superman birthday cards and the green polkadot “1” candle I plan to keep forever in a memory box already filled with newborn clothes, hospital bracelets and a little hat that still smells like he did when I held him for the first time.
There aren’t enough photos. There aren’t enough videos. In the age of constantly having a camera, I didn’t use mine enough.
I hope his confused stare as he listened to family sing “Happy Birthday” for the first time, and the look on his face after the tentative bites he took of cake he’s never tasted (before diving right in), and the happy giggle he made while showing off his walking skills leave an imprint in my brain of this day.
So while I won’t be able to share it with you, not really, I can remember it as I watch my not-so-little baby continue to grow up too fast.
Monthly photos with the white onesie and white bed sheet and cute stickers ended at eight months old. I have a few blurry photos of him straining in the onesie, rolling around in his crib and eating his sticker. After that, I chose to get him in action shots. Because he’s all action, all day long.
Happy birthday, baby boy.