My 6th-grade birthday was pure 80s kid bliss.

My 6th-grade birthday was pure 80s kid bliss.

Soccer in the yard. Then across the road into the field, because the world felt unbounded. My friends — Andy Prescott, Aaron Schaut, Steve Foster, Mike Skelly, others — tumbling around in that wild-hearted chaos only little boys can sustain.

Mom made a battlefield cake. She used my army guys and their gear, frosting the top like a war zone. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world.

I got the Cobra Night Raven. We flew it outside, ran it through the air, staged battles that lasted all afternoon. When the sun went down, we came inside, collapsed onto the floor, and watched G.I. Joe: The Pyramid of Darkness, The Transformers Movie, and Explorers on VHS.

It’s tempting to look back now and critique the militarism, the messaging, the plastic. There’s validity in that.

But there’s also this:

Mom used her creativity to meet me where I was — a kid obsessed with G.I. Joe and jets — and turned a sheet cake into a mythic landscape. Dad bought the plane. My friends filled the yard.

I felt seen. I felt celebrated. I felt like the main character of my own little movie.

That matters too.