Drake

Drake is sixteen years old. It is hard to fathom. My mind just can't comprehend that the little boy with jiggly cheeks is now ready to drive a car. I mean, he broke everything he could grab, reach for, or nearly touch for the first three years of his life.

He started off as a miracle and has grown even more outstanding. He made a bet that he could give up sugar, and he hasn't had any for a year and a half. I told him he shouldn't use a Reeces Peanut Butter Cup wrapper as a book mark if he was trying to avoid sugar, and he said, "I do that because it challenges me. I wouldn't really accomplish anything if I didn't feel tempted to give in."

He mowed, cleaned gutters, vacuumed cockroaches out of an abandoned apartment, ripped out slimy, dirty, cupboards, and cleaned trash out of the dank basement of a vacant building to save up enough money to buy an iPod. Then, he upgraded his phone and promised to sell his hard-earned iPod to a friend. When he researched it later, he realized the price he had told his friend was way too low for it's value. When I suggested he explain to his friend that he had made a mistake and the price would be higher, Drake said, "No. My word is more important than a thing. I'll stick with what I said."

In fourth grade he had a crush on a girl at school. I asked if she was cute and he told me that she wasn't really very cute, but she was nice and good at all the stuff he was bad at. He said they would make a good team.

When I told him I was getting a cat to chase away our mice, he told me he didn't like cats. When I showed him the tiny, black kitten, he melted like a stick of butter, instantly named him Optimus Prime, and is often found rescuing the kitten from the neighborhood dogs or the tip top of trees.

Happy Birthday, Drake.
I'm glad you were born.