Today our little Riah-roo, my Rygor, turned eight years old. Our little bundle of joy with a head in the 90th percentile and a body in 10th percentile. My partner for countless hours of playing toys, such as the many times Lord Zaxon would send his evil robots to destroy the village, or the countless plots of the wicked cats to kidnap the princesses, or the wacky adventures of the syrup bottle and baby Jesus. Our inexhaustible sprite, our flamboyant fairy, our tireless tub of tenacity.
My little competition. She’s already won more baby pageants, science fairs, and storytelling contests than I ever have. And judging by the incessant knocks on our front door from just about every child in the neighborhood — all day, every day — there’s no denying that she’s the life of the party, the creative wonder, the impulsive genius of fun, the explosive, wide-mouthed puppet of passion.
Everyone who knows you loves you. Everyone who loves you fears you. Everyone who fears you wants to squeeze you. Here’s to eight more years of tea parties, love notes, and late-night adventures with our neighbor Totoro.