Seven snuck up on me.
Even though I know what follows six.
Even though he had a four-month countdown going.
Even though I bought the gifts and made the cakes.
Still. Seven snuck up on me in a lot of ways.
It snuck up on me that, on the rare occasion when he falls asleep in the car after a long ride home, I can physically no longer carry him into the house.
It snuck up on me that he would have an opinion about which pants he prefers for gym class.
And it definitely snuck up on me, one day this winter, that all of his clothes were way too short. Not a little, but as if it had happened in a week. And maybe it did.
This was a year of massive change for my first born child. First grade. Full days of school. Homework. After-school activities. So many new entries into our daily routine. It’s a lot for him.
And, oh yeah, a new sibling too.
When the baby came home, I don’t think anyone expected just how smitten my oldest would be with him. And how it would stay that way, day in and day out. He adores their physical resemblance of one another. He tells strangers, with pride, all about the ins and outs of being the big brother. In the morning, he beelines to the crib to greet him.
And while the baby is his captive audience, his four year-old sister is his biggest fan. With their two-year age differences comes the fighting and standard nonsense between them, but the rhythm they’ve created to make ninjas, warriors and princesses co-exist is — most days — really something.
He is a mush at heart. Often it takes some peeling back of the layers to get there, but I hope that inner sentimentality will never change about him. I love that he doesn’t blink when I still hug and kiss him at school drop-off and pick-up. I wonder all the time if those days are numbered. I know deep down that they are.
Last night, when briefing me on how the Star Wars birthday cupcakes should be distributed between the Galactic Empire and the Rebel Alliance, he told me that turning seven made him closer to being ten. I told him not to rush — I almost pleaded — but his eyes were wild with excitement over the prospect of being one year older.
He loves the funny, my boy. His knock-knock jokes may be works in progress, but his belly laugh comes from a place so deep in his soul that it still almost reduces me to tears sometimes. His imagination is boundless and exceeds any expectations my husband and I had from our own genetic input. His curiosity is also infinite. And I say that with both admiration for the wonders of childhood and with sheer exhaustion. {Because, if you thought there was a limit to the number of questions one could ask about, say, volcanoes or perhaps scorpions — you would be dead wrong.}
I’m reminded by him often that he’s getting bigger. He asks me what he’ll be allowed to do when he’s 10, when he’s 12, when he’s a teenager. When can he drive? When can he make the decisions about dinner? When can he stay up as late as he wants?
And yet, when I ask him where he’ll live when he grows up, he always states matter-of-factly: “Here. With you. I’ll always stay here with you.”
I will remind him of this years from now and, if I’m lucky, he’ll laugh it off and only roll his eyes a little.
In the meantime, he belongs right here with me.
I kissed and hugged him at bedtime last night and he yelled with joy, “Goodbye, 6!”
And just like that, seven snuck up on me.
Happy Birthday, my sweet boy. xo
