My boy is seven, a fact that seems as crazy as when they let us bring him home from the hospital a mere six years and 363 days ago. I suggested to him last night that maybe he should just be six for one more year, but he said no, a not-so-gentle reminder that my opinions are becoming less important to him. It was a good idea, and I can’t believe he didn’t even consider it.
My boy is both big and little. I imagine he will seem this way to me for many more years, maybe forever, but right now it’s really true. He can make his own bed, as long as someone helps him with the last corner of the fitted sheet. He still snuggles with me, but not for too long. He is many things, wrapped in a 47 lb package, and today I share him with you.
You are the face that launched a thousand sleepless nights.
You are a nose in a book, oblivious to the outside world.
You are a soccer player, hovering just on the outside of the action, slowly building the confidence and skills to go all in.
You are a monkey, terrifying every mother at the park, climbing to the tippy top of the playground spiderweb, your shoulders scraping the clouds.
You are a leaf, blown off course by the slightest breeze, easily distracted, and never, ever remembering why you went upstairs. It was to grab a jacket, by the way.
You are a giggle erupting, knocked senseless into a puddle of hysterics by “butt” or “poop,” the language of first graders everywhere.
You are your brown blanket, nubby and worn from seven years of hard love, with harder edges more comfortable being used for warmth now than snuggles.
You are a thinker, posing intricate questions, and remembering small details.
You are a blur, a boy on a bike flying past like a lightening bolt.
You are an older brother, 75% your sister’s best friend, 25% her tormentor.
You are my heart, overwhelming me with a dizzying variety of emotions: pride, frustration, joy, surprise, and so much love it literally overflows from my eyeballs on a ridiculously frequent basis.
You are my firstborn. You made me a mother, and you changed the dynamic of our family forever. My world, and my boobs, will never be the same.
Happy birthday, son. I hope you love being seven as much as you love leaving your socks all over the house.
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