Dear Tzofi,
On the occasion of your fifth birthday there are a few things I would like to tell you. First of all, you are fucking awesome. Despite the fact that you call me ‘Daddy’ and not the preferred ‘Nighthawk’ your awesomeness knows no bounds. There are so many things that make you awesome but I’ve read recently that people don’t have patience to read long prose on the internet these days, so I’ll keep this brief.
I’ll never forget the moment we made eye contact for the first time, just seconds after you were pulled out of mommy’s joanie* with a vacuum. Before that point, I had thought that I pretty much experienced every emotion possible. Though I may not be a doctor or mommy blogger, I do know that newborns can’t see. That said, I really don’t give a shit. We made eye contact and it was the most powerful moment of my life. At least until I got distracted by Mommy’s placenta.
While you were growing inside Mommy’s uterus I spent a lot of time thinking about what it was going to be like raising a daughter. I came up with two goals. The first was to provide you an environment that is loving, encouraging, supportive, creative and a lot of fun.** The second was to have weekly dance parties. I think that your mother and I have, for the most part, delivered on both. Granted, I’ve made mistakes along the way*** and you can be an asshole at times but nobody is perfect.
You are a cool kid - expressive and artistic - and for a five year old, you’ve got a fairly good sense of individualism. Pretty good fashion sense too.
May the coming years bring you as much joy as cake currently does. Happy Birthday.
Love,
Daddy****
* vagina
** I hope you continue to high five me whenever you fart.
*** I hope teaching you the lyrics to “Beat on the Brat” did not cause long term damage.
**** Would be cool if you called me Nighthawk for even just a few days.

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