Seven.

At school, on your birthday, you get to go on the announcements in the morning.  It is the first thing he told me when I picked him up this afternoon.  That, and the fact that the girls were talking in class, so they didn’t get to have recess. 

They ask the kids to share their favorite color,  what you will do to celebrate your birthday, and share your favorite food.  I asked what his answers were this year, “red, having a Harry Potter party because my mom rocks, and guacamole.”  I asked him if he really told the school that I rocked and he smiled, said no, and told me he added that for my benefit.

He is seven, this boy.  The one that we hoped and wished for, the one we painstakingly planned and waited for, and can not imagine our lives without.  I wondered on the way to the hospital for my c-section, if we would even like each other.  It was such an abstract concept, until a few hours later when he arrived and it all made perfect sense.  One moment, an itty bitty cry from a giant baby, and I was a mom.

Seven.

If I say it enough, I might start to believe it.

He is smart as a whip with the driest sense of humor, and mannerisms that I’d rather he reserve until he is a teenager.  He is still my baby, though now, trapped in a lanky body with a mop of blonde hair, and the faintest hint of freckles kissing his nose.

I am excited to see what this year holds for him, the new things he will learn, and the adventures that await.  I am sure it’s going to be good.