Somerset, you are seven years old today. You have requested breakfast for your birthday dinner, chocolate-chip pancakes and bacon and sausage. Specifically, you would like a pancake in the shape of an "S."
I have no doubt that when you get it, you will break into one of your funky little dances. You know the dance I mean, where you do kind of a robot meets King Tut meets Elaine from Seinfeld type thing.
Right now, you remind me a lot of myself at your age, except I was sweeter. I wouldn't say that you are mean, exactly, but you are tough. You have the self-preservation instincts of a girl with two big bothers and a little sister who sometimes channels schizophrenic demons.
I'm cool with that. I want you to be kind and compassionate, but I also want you to know how to look out for yourself. You don't take any crap, and I wouldn't have it any other way. We'll keep working on recognizing when butts need kicking and when someone just needs you to cut them some slack.
The thing I admire most about you is your perseverence. More than either of your brothers, you will make up your mind to do something and then keep trying until you do it. It's a quality that will serve you well. I need to help you find something productive to channel that into.
Sometimes when I watch you play now, I catch glimpses of the teenager you'll be in a few years, and the woman you'll be in a few more. I can't wait to meet those versions of you, because I know you'll be even smarter and funnier and stranger than you are now. Happy birthday my beautiful Somerset. I feel lucky to be your mom.