To Shawn.
On your birthday, you didn't sleep in. You got up and made breakfast for our kids, like you do most mornings. You hugged and kissed them (and me) like you do every single day, then you went into your office and worked. A lot. You called people, emailed people, put out fires, massaged egos, and made other people happy, all so you could earn a paycheck to pay for the breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Late in the day, you packed the car, strapped the boards on the roof, stopped at Starbucks so your wife could get a late afternoon latte, and drove a screaming baby, two children, one mother-in-law and one grandmother-in-law the hour and a half to the beach. Then you unstrapped the boards, unpacked the car, set out the chairs, put the grandma in a chair, put sunscreen on the boys, made sure everyone was taken care of, and finally paddled out to surf. That was all you wanted on your birthday. And even then, you came in 45 minutes later to paddle back out with your seven-year-old. That night, after dinner at the pub and an equally long drive home, you carried tired boys up the stairs, eased them into their pajamas, and tucked them into their beds before you dropped into ours.
I consider myself lucky. And thankful.
You are a good man. You are a great husband. You are an amazing father. Happy Birthday.
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