My oldest son, Michael, is 31 years old today. He’s holding Hannah in this photo; he’s also Emma’s dad.

Now, don’t ask how I can believe I’m a Grammy and not believe I’m the mother of a 31-year-old. Well, ask, but don’t expect a lucid answer.

Michael was the first grandchild for both his father’s parents and mine. Adored? Oh, but yes. My father would leave work during lunch just to stand over Michael’s crib to watch him sleep. My mother insisted Michael see a Mardi Gras parade before he was a year old. We weren’t really prepared for how biting the cold would be. Michael’s clapping to the marching bands’ music was muffled by the two pairs of socks on his hands that substituted for gloves.

So, to my first born, may your birthday be as happy as it made me the day you were born.