You’ve always been your own person, jiving to your own beat.
You grab every day with enthusiasm.
You burp like a beer-swilling trucker.
Optimus Prime is still your main man. Followed by Bruno Mars.
You still move at the pace of a snoozing snail.
You live by the rules. Except when you wrestle with your brother.
You love pop music. As long as it’s “rocky.”
When you are angry, you are fierce. (You go girl!)
You still consume your food molecule by molecule.
Your almond eyes and deep red lips surprise me every day (I made such beauty?)
You can laugh at yourself. When you laugh, your voice disappears. It’s very cute.
No juice please, only milk.
Dresses & skirts be gone (but at least you let me braid your hair.)
You want to be a vet when you grow up.
You’ve partially overcome your dislike of spherically shaped foods. Meaning you now eat peas and corn, and you’ll suck on a grape. But blueberries, baby tomatoes? Nope.
You want to be either Captain America or The Hulk for Halloween.
No sauce please, on anything.
You are planning on forming a band. You will be playing bass.
You love to snuggle, you love bedtime, you love to sleep.
You go from tears to giggles at shocking speed.
I can still double bluff you.
You are my superhero.
Happy birthday, T – welcome to six!
