Happy Birthday, Blue Ivy! Blue. I don’t know what to call you. Blue? Can we just settle on Blue? Do I have to say the “Ivy” part? Your name is cute. I’m sorry. That’s not your fault, but I might as well lay that on the line for you. You’re a big girl now, you can take it. For the rest of your life, whenever somebody says your name they will think in the back of their head, “This is cute, I am saying a cute name right now.” Unless you go by “Blue” instead of “Blue Ivy.” Blue is almost okay.
Anyway, Happy Birthday Blue. I hope it’s a happy birthday for you. I’m sure it is. When your Mom turned 31 she got to celebrate on a fucking yacht in the French Riviera, so I’m guessing your birthday is probably going to be pretty fucking happy. I know about how you and your Mom were on a yacht because there are people in this world who you don’t even know who are able to earn a reasonable living just by taking pictures of you. And you know what else? People on the thing called the internet are writing about your first birthday. They are allowed to say whatever they want about anything in the entire world, and they are writing about your first birthday. I am on the internet. I’m a human being you will never meet. But I have thought about you, and I am sharing those thoughts with other people right now. Isn’t that crazy? You’re one year old today!
You don’t even know what this means yet, but you are famous. Your Mom is famous and your Dad is famous and you are famous. You might not ever know what that means. You’ve only ever been famous. The first time you actually form a thought about the fact that you are famous, that thought might be along the lines of “oh, other people are not this” rather than “Jesus Christ I am famous.” That’s how famous you are. You’ve been alive for one year.
Your Mom sings songs but is mostly just pretty for a living, and your Dad writes songs and talks on beats but mostly he brags about how great he is for a living (and he is). They both have made a lot of money in their lives, and they both have been pretty smart about investing and keeping that money, and you are going to have a lot of money. Money is what people have that allows them to do things. You have enough of it to do whatever you want for the rest of your life. Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, you don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. For all you know, you could be at that McDonalds in Richmond, Virginia with the caboose in front that I went to a couple of times when I was a kid. I thought that was pretty cool. I bet wherever you are, you think it’s pretty cool too. And you’re probably right because your Dad is Jay-Z and your Mom is Beyoncé. You’re one year old. You’re one year old.
What is your life going to be like? Are you just going to wander around New York bored out of your mind, shuffling between tasteful parties and occasionally experimenting with nightlife materials? Are you going to be stuck with a perpetual sourpuss, like the Google searches I just ran for Frances Bean Cobain and Coco Gordon Moore? Something gone, some vital inner fire extinguished, an awkward stage writ large like some real life episode of Girls? Will you marry a sculptor and move to New Mexico and only be photographed barefoot? Will you backdoor a formidable career in politics through philanthropic giving? All these possibilities lay before you. You’re Blue Ivy Z-Knowles and you have one candle on your birthday cake. Happy Birthday.
You were born one year ago. Your father was born 43 years ago and your mother was born 31 years ago. You are a baby. Your parents are grown-ups. They are older than you. They are going to die some day. You will probably be alive when they die. It will be sad. They seem like nice people, even to people like me who have never met them. One of the biggest reasons why they’re both famous is because they seem like nice people. Cool people. I don’t want them to die because when they do, it will make me think about how I will die and about how everybody ever will die. They have everything. If they die, that officially means everybody will. So will you, some day. I don’t like to think about it. Forget I brought it up. There’s no reason to think about that now. Today you are one year old.
You know what I do want to think about? The fact that you are a baby. That is great. Babies are great. They’re cute and they don’t know anything so they don’t suck yet. They only suck the same way every other baby sucks. I like to think about how you are a baby. You cry and scream about dumb stuff like “I’m hungry” or “that red thing is gone.” There’s a decent chance that wherever you are right now you’re covered in your own shit. Babies are like that. No matter who they are there’s a decent chance they’re covered in their own shit, and the rest of us have to just roll with it. You’re like that even though all of the other stuff about you is also true. Your Mom sang that song about “got me lookin’ so crazy right now.” Remember that one? No, you don’t. Everybody but you knows that song. You’re a baby. You only know things like “I don’t like when they suck the snot out of my face.” That is an appropriate thing for you to know. So: congratulations, baby. You are one.