Happy Birthday, Henry

I think it's my friend David's baby's first birthday today or sometime this week. I haven't met him yet and I really have to, except that I secretly am not very interested in babies until they're at least one. They start to get really funny and develop a little personality by that time. Until then, we refer to them as "larvae" (That is, Sister of PeaceBang and I do -- and we mean it affectionately, as in, "Of course he's darling but he's still in that larva stage.").

I think about my own past year: went some places, wrote some stuff, bought some new CD's, saw a dozen or so shows and movies, had a few dinner parties, made some friends. Starred in a show. Started a doctoral program. Added a few pairs of shoes and a few blouses to the closet. Got the oil changed.

This compared to Henry's past year:
got born, learned to hold head up unaided, went from breast milk to solid foods, carved thousands of synapses in the brain, developed vision, cut some teeth, began to recognize mom and dad's face and to respond to them with facial expressions. Developed a rudimentary sense of language. Went from gassy grimaces to authentic smiles. Mastered the whole "bye-bye" wave. Accosted by dozens of enthusiastic strangers simply for being rolled around in a buggy looking fetching in tiny cotton outfits. And hopefully: raked in tons of presents from adoring grandparents for managing to make it through the past 12 months without getting broken or damaged by novice parents.

He's got me beat by a mile. Happy Birthday, Henry. This old broad salutes you. Best of luck climbing up that big hill called life.