This is just going up here because I don't want you, 6 or 7 years from now, when you're looking through ancient blog posts by Daddy, to notice that he neglected to put up a picture of you from your first birthday. So here you go. Happy birthday, son. When you're reading this years from now, know these things: At age 1, you had an unhealthy fascination for garbage, and ate anything you could pluck from an unguarded waste-paper basket. You defoliated many houseplants, popping leaves in your mouth. Your favorite song was Bad Company's "Shooting Star," probably because the protagonist's name is Johnny. You had a vocabulary limited to "mama," "dada," "baba," "jiejie," and, oddly, "tiger." And you were cute as a fucking button. (Chinese modesty forbids me to say same about your mom. Plus I don't want you gettin' all Oedipal on me).
Photo by Aaron Deemer, my soon-to-be brother in law!