Suburbs of Our Discontent

My son turned eight yesterday. If we were living in Shakespeare's England, that means we might  have celebrated the day—not with a 20-child baseball-themed party at an overpriced indoor venue— but by having a breeching ceremony. In layman's terms, he would have put on some pants.

Now, granted, breeching a boy at eight years old would have been seen as a little bit on the late side. But apparently some mothers weren't quite ready to give their sweet little boys up to the masculine world of swords and wench-hunting.  I am sure I would have been one of those ladies.

So happy birthday to my sweet little boy. Remember, Mommy has embarrassing video of you crawling with your forehead, so don't ever grow up and leave me. Okay?