3 years ago this morning you were removed, along with lots of other things, from your erstwhile living womb during an emergency C-section. Papa’s face was white when he and Mom were told, during what was supposed to be an induced delivery, that your heartbeat couldn’t be detected, and as Mom was subsequently rushed to the ER.

But as is your wont, you were just being stubborn and testing boundaries — who, after all, was some doctor to decide when you would come into the world on your own accord — and when you entered the outside world as an official post fetus human, you were completely healthy, with every test concluding you had problem whatever with your heart.

— Which, fast-forward 3 years, I could have told anyone. Because having met you and having experienced your generosity and your compassion, I am in no doubt whatsoever of your heart, which is as big as it is open and as strong as it is kind.

Happy Birthday, Belly Bean. And yes, you can start wrestling next fall. If you behave, and if you’re potty trained by then.

The rest is on you, little man.