Foive

Five years old... already.
Mum and Dad have conveniently brushed over the fact that today is your birthday, but you see, it is for your own good.
What with the Christmas fair yesterday in your school, the daily excitement of the advent calendar(s), your birthday cake with all the family next Saturday and your birthday party with your mates on Sunday.

A date does not mean much to you yet. And emotionally it could prove all too much for a little guy like you.

9 December.
We know.
And that matters. And we celebrate the event, in our own way.
Watching you grow and become more independent (I did not say contrary) is a daily celebration. Which happens to be all the more significant each year on 9 December.

You still have so much to discover, so much to learn.

That for example when Dad taps your back because you swallowed some roast turkey the wrong way, it is not considered assault. He is trying to save you, not hurt you. And retaliating as soon as you find your breath again is just not right.

There is also no point in throwing a tantrum if the number 9 shutter on your advent calendar reveals an empty space.
You ate number 8 and 9 yesterday, chocolate does not grow back during the night. Live with it, you only have yourself to blame.
Or you could decide to eat number 10 today, and number 11 too, to help beat the December blues. And number 12 too. In for an inch, in for a mile as they say. Who knows, you may become Finance Minister for a so-called civilised nation with these budgeting and forward planning skills.

It is also considered rude to call one of Dad's work colleague a "big fat idiot" within ear shot. Not when it is totally unprovoked.
Even if he happens to be a big fat idiot.

So, there you go, little Finnzy-Bob. Happy (unbeknownst to you) birthday, boy!

We'll have a great day on Saturday. And a cake. And candles. And balloons. And envious siblings out of the limelight.

And on Sunday, you are going to Fitzone with your mates. It's a zone, and you have to be seriously fit to run around like mad eedjits for two hours solid and scream at the top of your five year old lungs.

Mum and Dad can't wait...