How about that. Six years old tomorrow.

Our little dude, Henry Bean.

Six years ago tonight I was pacing and swaying in what I now know was pre-labour. I was forgetting to pack Adam's boardshorts although I planned a whole lot of birthing bath action (packed his speedos instead – never heard the end of it. When he tells the story of searching for his boardies and finding his speedos then standing in them and only them with me in full labour and a roomful of midwives, well, it's a very funny story. But I digress.)

Henry, you excellent little man, we are so pleased to have been here for the last six years with you.

We love your sweetness, we love your single mindedness and we love how much you love your friends. Particularly George.

We love your questions. Yes, maybe you can marry George one day. No you cannot marry Tilly. No you cannot marry Ivy either.

We love your dedication to bananas.

We love that of the whole world of foods you can choose from for your birthday dinner (anything, that's the rule) you choose pumpkin soup. And jelly.

We admire your skills with all things electronic and internet-related, particularly my laptop.

We love that you've finally discovered Lego. Your grandparents are hoping this means your father might finally take his enormous Lego collection out of their spare room and take it home.

We respect the fact you are so not a morning person and for one birthday further down the track we'll probably introduce you to espresso. It's bound to help. (It can turn my morning around, that's for sure.)

We love the fact that all you want to talk about at the dinner table is what everyone had for morning tea, lunch and afternoon tea. (It's the Walmsley in you, Son. Don't fight it.)

We think about what you've learnt, what you've gone through and where you're at now, compared to a year ago, and we're impossibly proud of you.

Happy birthday, fella. We love you.




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