His fourth birthday, 2003,
Spy Kids cake, Spy Kids plates, 
orange punch,
color-coordinated balloons,
Thumb Thumb action figures.
His grandpa says, “What in the world?”
eyeing the toys: thumb people in red jumpsuits.
Black cardstock shoe prints,
taped to our hardwood floors,
a trail to follow, mystery to solve,
scavenger hunt for pre-school spies,
a treasure chest filled with treat bags.
Guest of honor, freckle-faced,
dressed in black and orange,
just like the main character
he pretends to be.
Costumes are his favorite.
Aunt Sissy, my crafty sister, is late,
present in hand,
little spies running everywhere.
He opens her gift
before we cut the cake,
disappears to his room,
returns,
dressed in tiny ripped jeans shorts,
green t-shirt with airbrushed abs,
cotton batting muscles.
“I’m the Hulk!” he says.
He loves it.
“But this is a Spy Kids party,”
I remind him, “Your favorite.”
All the other spies have stopped
their secret mission 
to stare at the Incredible Hulk,
flexing his homemade muscles,
roaring from the top of the stairs.
Hulk is his new favorite.
I sigh, “Hulk meets Spy Kids,”
I mumble, giving in.
The party amps up a notch
as Hulk chases his guests
around our living room.