Dear Hooper,

My life is richer because you are in it.

Happy Birthday,
Mama

A few months ago, our neighbors had a first birthday party. I think I’ve counted 10 people that live in that house. It’s a four bedroom house. Anyway, the party was complete with a DJ blasting mariache music into the wee hours of the night. They had a bouncer. The street was lined with cars. There was a keg. If I hadn’t peeked through the fence to see the pin the tail on the donkey, I would have wondered if someone had uprooted our home and transported it like Dorthey’s home on the Wizard of Oz to a college fraternity row. My sister was in town that weekend and was pretty bummed when the white noise maker, a closed door, AND ear plugs wouldn’t do the trick.

Hooper’s birthday is around the corner. Obviously it means nothing to him. He has a little birthday cake toy that plays the birthday song. It was his favorite toy for a while. He rocks back and forward when the song comes on and stares anticipatingly when the candles light up. And that about sums up his knowledge of what a birthday is.

The debate: Go big or go home? We’re going home. Or rather, we’re staying home. We’ve invited immediate family only. The stranger danger for him and the stress for me is all lessened. And that, my friends, is how we’re going about this little man’s first birthday bash.

In anticipation of Hooper’s first birthday, I thought I’d snap some before-the-party-shots. Surprisingly, the hat didn’t throw him into much of a protest. He still wasn’t a total willing participant. So I paid him with raisins. It worked. And these are what I got in exchange. The ones of him crying capture the result of the “exchange” not happening quite up to a one-year-old’s standards.