Tomatoes are "main-os" (and cherry tomatoes are "baby main-os" obviously.) Helicopters are "coppers." Hiccups are "hips up." Lemons are "nemon juice." Pigs are "piggybacks." Soup is "dupe."
Your favourite food is "cheesy pasta" (mac & cheese.) You love pancakes ("cakes! Cakes!") You hate vegetables and meat. You exist mainly on cheese and carbs. You're definitely related to me is what I'm saying.
You love to make a mess but you hate to see a mess ("mesth, mama! Mesth!") (You have a bit of a lisp. It kills me dead.) You do this thing where you make a giant mess and then look at me with your face all scrunched up and you say in the sweetest voice, "happened, mama?" Well, you happened, buds.
You love music (especially classic rock) and you start to shake your little tush at the slightest hint of a beat. You turn everything into a drum set and I know I'm biased but I truly believe you've already got a perfect sense of rhythm and time.
You love water. Love it. Your favourite pastime is to splish and splash in your water table or, better yet, with the garden hose. You would play in water all day if we let you.
You have been a trooper throughout all this cancer business. You are so gentle and careful around my scar. "Mama's owie," you say and then lean in to give it a soft kiss.
You give the best hugs. You wrap your arms so tightly around my neck and say, "squeeeeeeze" before you finish with a few firm pats on my back.
You are so challenging and so stubborn and so absolutely wonderful. I love you, Gus Gus. Happy birthday.