On January 25th, many moons ago, a child was born.
10 pounds and whatever-ounces.
The ounces don’t matter.
He was fat.
And a vagina wrecker.
In fact, he was so fat that his Mom thought he looked hungrier than any other baby she had seen.
And on his second day of birth, his Mom fed him rice cereal through his bottle.
No lie.
This child grew up in a small town that prided mullets and tacky sweaters with puffy plastic appliques of horses and other various livestock.
He learned to shuck corn and pick potatoes.
And how to make donuts in his parents front yard with a lawn mower.
And that eating the squirrel that his Dad hunted in the backyard was an acquired taste. Thankfully, he never liked it.
True story.
He fished in ditches.
When he was in his teens, him and his buddy snuck into the landfill and found a box of nude magazines.
It’s still a moment of pride in his life.
Then he grew up and went to school.
He became a Tool Designer and landed a wonderful job.
Then one day, he met her.
A city girl, far younger than he…
…by like 2 years but like a really really far 2 years.
He immediately swept her off her feet.
He taught her about important things like how brown cows do not make chocolate milk.
And that it’s sacreligious if you don’t watch Don Cherry on Saturdays.
He taught her to laugh at things even though they seem silly.
And that beer is a food group.
He taught her that a man can still be a man even if he wears make-up from time to time.
They danced and traveled and laughed and loved.
A lot.
Then they got married.
Then she watched as he transformed into an amazing Father.
He taught her that love is stronger than any struggle that life can ever throw at you.
And that when he promised her “Through sickness and in health. Till death do us part”…
…he meant it.
At least I fucking hope so…
Babe, you rock my world.
Thank you for loving me.
Happy Birthday.
